


Recipe for Love

by HaleHole (SweetFanfics)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Cooking, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff and Humor, Food Sex (implied), Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Morning Sex, Oblivious Derek, POV Multiple, Panic Attacks, Post-Coital Cuddling, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetFanfics/pseuds/HaleHole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's the thing. While Stiles owns and is the head chef of his mom's restaurant, he's not that great at cooking. He knows this, Scott knows this, the few loyal customers that come in on a daily basis know this.</p><p>So why the<i> hell</i> had he boasted to that smug, devastatingly gorgeous businessman he’d stumbled into at the morning market that he could whip up some Crab Napoleon without sweating a drop?</p><p> </p><p>(A Simply Irresistible AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recipe for Love

**Author's Note:**

> Right off the bat, this fic wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the following people: [Bubbles](http://stileslovesderek.tumblr.com), [Kim](http://tigrislupa.tumblr.com) and [Coraline](http://teamsciles.tumblr.com). These three kept kicking my ass and encouraging me in equal parts so thank you so much girls!
> 
> Secondly, this fic wouldn't have seen the light day if it wasn't the wonderful people who helped beta it. You guys are fucking rockstars! Heartfelt thanks to [Laura](http://darkmysteriouspissed.tumblr.com/), [Erika](http://derekswolfpackage.tumblr.com/), [Zinny](http://frek.tumblr.com>Dani</a>,%20<a%20href=), [Elin](http://firecracker452.tumblr.com/) and Megan. I hope I didn't forget anyone....
> 
> Thank you [Anna](http://wolwiegirl.tumblr.com) for helping with the french!
> 
> Other than that, I'm really happy with this fic for the most part. Not only is this the longest one-shot I've written to date (Teen Wolf and otherwise), it's the first time in a long while I just had fun with a fic. And I hope you all like reading it as much as I did writing it.
> 
>  
> 
> **Explanation for the mild dubcon is contained in the endnotes.**

  
  


Here's the thing. While Stiles owns and is the head chef of his mom's restaurant -- The Beacon, named after the town where she'd met his Dad -- he's not that great at cooking. Grilling and roasting things is easy enough. Anything to do with potatoes? Stiles is your man. Salads? Stiles is a master. Sandwiches? Just watch him butter those slices!  
  


But anything that is more complicated than 5 steps and/or includes a sauce? Forget about it.  
  


He knows this, Scott knows this, the few loyal customers that come in on a daily basis know this. His Dad is nice enough to never say this straight to his face, but Lydia has no qualms in muttering about it under her breath every time she goes over the menu. She says that as their best customer, she is well within her limits and rights to make sure that Stiles doesn't get a swelled head. Jackson loudly complains about everything and anything to do with their restaurant so Stiles doesn't think that his opinion counts. Danny... Danny is an angel who doesn't say anything and quietly eats whatever they present to him. Stiles kind of loves the guy.  
  


Still. Fact of the matter is Stiles is not the world's greatest chef. So why the _hell_ had he boasted to that smug, devastatingly gorgeous businessman he’d stumbled into at the morning market that he could whip up some Crab Napoleon without sweating a drop?  
  


Can Stiles blame that stupid runaway crab? Because if that crab hadn't snuck out of its basket and snapped the guy's ankles, Stiles wouldn't have wound up in this mess in the first place. He wouldn't have been ducking under tables and displays in a mad chase after a runaway crab that ended when he'd grabbed an ankle instead of a crustacean.  
  


Stiles also guesses that grabbing the stranger's leg out of nowhere probably hadn't helped his mood either. To be clear, he means the other guy’s mood, not his own. The sharp dressed business man with pale eyes and angry eyebrows a.k.a Mr. Crabby Business Man (or just Mr. Crabby for short) had looked less than pleased when Stiles had grabbed his ankle.  
  


So maybe Stiles really couldn't, and shouldn't, blame the innocent little crab. After all, it had probably recognized the grouchy business man as a fellow crab and gone to him for help. Cause the man was _super_ crabby and all.  
  


And now he's making bad jokes. The situation is worse than Stiles had anticipated. _'Why did he even come here?'_ Stiles moans to himself as he walks back to the kitchen. He’s helped Mr. Crabby and his girlfriend to their seats and presented them with a pair of menus, saying he’ll be back in a few minutes for their order. _'How did he even find the place?'_ Oh wait, he'd told Mr. Crabby where his restaurant was. Damn his loose lips!  
  


Stiles is tempted to turn around and see if the man still looks like he's got a cactus up his butt, but he doesn't want to find out that he's being glared at. _'What the Hell did I do to deserve this?'_ Stiles whines. _'And why are the good looking ones always such bastards?'_  
  


His brain helpfully reminds him that he had basically snapped at the guy in the market, puffed his chest out and told him that he, YES he, was a chef and NO, he wasn't a dishwasher! Hello?! Could you BE more rude to a complete stranger, Mr. Crabby? And that he could TOTALLY prove himself any time, any day! Just look up his restaurant three blocks away and Stiles will blow him away! (His mouth kind of runs away with him in general when he's nervous so if you add in a hot person and wounded pride, it's never pretty).  
  


_'And why did he come here with his girlfriend anyways?'_ Stiles pauses at the kitchen doors, sneaking a glance at her. She's blonde (honey-dark, wavy hair just past her shoulders), leggy, with a smile that won't quit (even if it is a bit on the sly side). It makes Stiles feel like a piece of meat, one that is several steps below her on the food chain. The creepy smile coupled with her obviously expensive attire only adds to his irrational ire. He wants to know what Mr. Crabby sees in her because he's getting some seriously bad vibes from her. Not Matt-level bad vibes but close.  
  


He feels vindicated when he notices that Lydia, Jackson, Erica _and_ Danny are surreptitiously checking out the new couple as well. Then again, in their case they're probably just surprised that they're not the only ones here for lunch.  At the bar, Erica is _probably_ trying to figure out the fastest way to get Mr. Crabby out of his suit because well, that's Erica. He wishes he had hired Danny instead of the flirtatious blonde, but she makes a _mean_ martini!  
  


Stiles gives Erica a sharp glare which she avoids by pretending to rearrange the menus. Dammit all! This is the _last_ thing he needs today! Bad enough that he'd gotten a call back from the bank just this morning, telling him that they've rejected his loan application, saying that they couldn't loan money to a failing restaurant. Without that money, Stiles now has no other choice but to close shop in a month.  
  


_'Life sucks,'_ Stiles grumbles morosely to himself. He can't imagine a life which doesn't involve him working in his mom's restaurant. And he _really_ can't imagine someone wanting to hire him, what with his terrible cooking skills. _'Maybe McDonalds is hiring...'_  
  


Scott looks up from the stove when he enters the kitchen and immediately frowns. Was Stiles that obvious? "What's up?" he asks, continuing to stir the sauce.  
  


Now that he's out of the dining area and far away from the prettiest green-hazel-what-EVEN-was-the-word-to-describe-that-crazy-color-anyways? eyes he's ever seen, Stiles flails his worry out. "Remember Mr. Crabby Pants from this morning? The one who I kinda had a fight with? He's _here_!"  
  


Scott frowns, dropping the spoon and wiping his hands clean before he walks over towards the doors. "Same guy who you told that you could make that fancy crab dish?" When Scott doesn't even try to be discreet about peeking through the round window, Stiles flails some more (bangs his hand into a hanging pot) and drags his friend back. "What's he doing here?"  
  


With a tiny groan, Stiles leans on his best friend. "He's here for that stupid fancy crab dish." Scott's hand gently pats his shoulder and Stiles is reminded all over again that he's got the best friend in the world. "What am I gonna do Scott?" Stiles whines into the other man's shoulder.  
  


Scott seriously considers this. Bless the man really. Not only does he work for next to nothing and make an awesome white sauce, but he also helps Stiles out of his tough spots. Not to mention does most of the work given Stiles’ culinary ‘skills’. "I got it!" Scott declares happily. "Tell him we're out of crabs! Oh! Better yet! We're closed!"  
  


Directing a disbelieving look at the man, Stiles points back towards the dining area. " _Hello_?! They're already seated! I can't go back there and tell him we're _closed_! Plus, he saw me buying fresh crabs. Besides! This is my pride on the line! I mean, the restaurant's pride!"  
  


The 'I heard that' look Scott gives him makes Stiles feel a tad guilty so he walks over to the shelf of cookbooks. "Ooookay then," Scott drawls while Stiles wonders if his Gordon Ramsay cookbook has a crab recipe in it. "Then I guess you're just gonna have to make the Crab... Stalin or whatever."  
  


"Napoleon!" Stiles corrects with a groan. Crab Stalin? Really? Then again, Scott could have gone with Crab Hitler. And that just. Nein. Heh. Nein. Oops. "Fine okay. I can make the damned thing!" He pauses, hoping for a choir of angels to come down with an answer. Or a recipe at the very least. There's nothing but the usual bubbling of sauces and water. So much for divine intervention. " _How_ am I gonna make it?"  
  


Scott moves back towards the stove, twisting the knob until the fire almost dies out. "You've got a lot of your mom's old recipe books right? Maybe one of them has something that can help. I’ll put the crabs in a pot."  
  


He wants to kiss his best friend (Allison won't mind either! She’s amazing like that.) "Yes! Great idea!" Stiles cheers, throwing his hands up in the air (which he bangs into the evil pot again. Who the hell had made the decision to put those damned things there in the first place? There wasn't enough room to do a proper cheer in here!) "I'm gonna go check upstairs." Stiles turns towards the door in the corner of the kitchen, the one that leads up to the upstairs apartment. He pauses at the doorway, “Don’t boil the crab that’s got a scar on it’s shell okay? It’s got this little x mark near the head.”  
  


Scott checks the crabs, plucking out the crustacean in question before holding it up for Stiles to see. “This one? You got something else planned for it?”  
  


“Yep! Gonna keep ‘em!” Stiles says before running away. No way Scott can talk him out of keeping a pet crab if he’s not there! Despite his hurry and the thudding of his feet on the wood, he clearly hears Scott yell, "We can’t keep a pet crab Stiles!."  
  


"I can’t hear you!" Stiles yells back.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


Less than 5 minutes later, Stiles noisily ambles down the stairs. "Find anything?" Scott asks, the question bouncing off the tiny hallway that Stiles is making his way down. He turns to look at his best friend, eyes his empty hands and the new neckerchief around his neck. "I didn't even know those things _came_ in plaid!" Scott can't stop himself from commenting.  
  


Stiles' hand goes up to his neck, fingering the thick fabric with a grin. "Right? I forgot I had it. It was Mom's lucky neckerchief. I think Dad got it for her right after she'd started the restaurant."  
  


Nodding at the green and white design, Scott walks over to check on the crabs that he's put to boil. There’s 4 crabs in the pot and one hiding under the lettuce a few feet away. It’s probably not a good idea to let the crab stay there. Who’s ever heard of a kitchen having a pet crab anyways?  
  


"So! I've got the crabs going. Did you find a recipe for what you're gonna do with em once they're done?" The sheepish look that passes over his best friends face makes Scott sigh. "I'm gonna take that as a no."  
  


"Assume away." Stiles replies glibly, adjusting his chef jacket as he walks over to the door. "I'll go take their order and hope Mr. Crabby isn’t gonna say Crab Napoleon."   
  


_'Good thing that the doors muffle most of the noises.'_ Scott thinks with a wry chuckle, wondering what kind of an expression the grumpy looking businessman would make if he ever found out that Stiles is referring to him as Mr. Crabby.  
  


He busies himself with Danny's order - delicious southern fried chicken. The man visits the restaurant every week and always orders the same thing, saying that it's a family thing to have deep fried chicken on Tuesdays. And who is Scott to come in the way of that? If the man wants deep fried chicken, then he can have it. Especially since it's on their menu and all (with a side of cornbread and salad).  
  


Scott is _so_ glad that when Stiles storms in and slams the menus down onto the counter he's just battering the chicken and isn’t anywhere near hot oil or is holding a pot of hot water. All that happens is that the chicken piece falls into the bowl, making a tiny cloud of flour and pepper float up before it quickly settles - no harm done in the end. But still on the bad side of alarming. "What the hell?" Scott complains, waving his sticky fingers down in gesture which says ‘Kinda busy here! Why’d you go and do that?’  
  


The other man talks over him, stomping over to the freezer. "One Crab Napoleon and one ‘simple Grilled Chicken Paillard, easy on the salt’ for that _mistake_ Mr. Crabby's with. Ugh!” Scott makes a face at Stiles’ mocking tone, watching him bang around the prep table. “Something about that chick is rubbing me the wrong way! And I’m not even talking about how picky she was giving her order! I might not know much, but I know how to grill some chicken!"  
  


Oh? Temporarily moving away from the dish he’s working on (like it's gonna go anywhere and Danny won't mind if his order is a minute or two late), Scott walks towards the kitchen doors and peeks through the round window. Erica is sashaying up to Mr. Crabby’s table, drinks menu in hand. When she leans down, Scott see's Mr. Crabby's eyes tick down to the cleavage that's almost in his face and sighs. He really wishes that Stiles was capable of putting his foot down with the woman about her dress sense. Low tops and leather skirts just didn't say 'fine dining', not to Scott, anyways. Besides, he's gotten into more trouble with Allison than he'd like over the way Erica acts and dresses. No, he doesn't want to talk about it either.  
  


Lydia and Jackson are whispering furiously, acting like their usual selves really. Danny isn't even pretending to read the book he's got open in front of him, but he's doing a better job of checking out the new customers than the others. Mr. Crabby is looking over the drinks menu and his date is... huh. She looks a little familiar. _'Might have seen her around town..'_ Scott decides. It's a big city, New York. Anything's possible here!  
  


Other than the faint thought that he knows her, Date looks... normal? Pretty, but normal. Immaculate make up, shapely legs, great shoes, hair styled to perfection, undoubtedly expensive clothes. The kind of girl you'd expect to see with a businessman like Mr. Crabby if he's totally honest.  
  


He can't see what Stiles is having a problem with. Unless he's crushing on the dude, which Scott suspects because of the glint in Stiles’ eyes, the one he'd gotten when Stiles had been in his Lydia and Danny stages. Stiles denies the existence of these glints, but Scott knows better. He _is_ Stiles' best friend after all, it's part of his best friend duties to notice the existence of these looks.  
  


"She looks alright to me,” Scott speaks up. "They match up pretty well I think." He's not just saying that because even their clothes kind of compliment each other’s! Mr. Crabby's got the whole dark thing going on and Date is wearing this dove gray skirt-suit thing with purple shirt. It's professional but feminine - really pretty all together!  
  


He ignores the loud raspberry from behind him, hoping that Stiles isn't spitting over the chicken. Better check that actually. Scott turns around to make sure. Stiles is grumbling as he wraps the chicken breasts up in a fair amount of plastic wrap. "No they don't!" The duh is obvious in the childish reply. Scott ignores it.  
  


"Look at em, dude!" Scott leans forward slightly, wondering what drinks they've ordered to make Erica give them ,what Scott personally refers to as, her shark grin. It's all teeth and feral and makes Scott want to run away and hide behind Allison. His girl is awesome and strong and can defend him and herself. "She doesn't even have one hair out of place!" Scott didn't even think that regular people could pull that off. "Just like his actually..."  
  


The man's hair is artfully gelled, just messy enough to look good but not enough to look unprofessional. Even his damned _stubble_ looks like a professional was responsible for its shape. ' _Rich people..._ ' Scott muses with a tiny bit of envy. ' _They've got the good life._ '  
  


"So what if they've got perfect hair?" Stiles grumbles, drawers clattering as he opens and closes them viciously. "It's not like having perfect hair together is a sign that you belong with someone! Just because you look like a couple who’s stepped out of GQ or Cosmo doesn't mean a damned thing!"  
  


Uh oh. The way Stiles' tone is rising means that he's entering into his petulant, 'Don't tell me I'm wrong when I'm right!' mode. Sure enough, Stiles begins to pound away at the chicken breasts with the heavy kitchen mallet, grumbling away the whole time. "Big _deal_ if she looks perfect with her perfect hair and heels and makeup and all! It's just hiding all her evilness! It's like this mask that she's using to hide who she _really_ is!"  
  


Scott winces at the strength that Stiles is putting into pounding the meat into the cutting board. Well, at least the chicken'll be good and thin he supposes. If only Stiles will stop ranting about how Mr. Crabby can't possibly be happy with someone who looks like she's hiding something big because her eyes are all soulless and _"_ Who _cares_ if her dress is sharp enough to cut your finger off when you look like you're two seconds away from bad touching someone anyways?"  
  


Huh? Scott looks at the woman leaning into the table and smiling at Mr. Crabby before he looks back at Stiles. Where... how... does he _really_ want to know where Stiles is coming up with all of this? Wow, Scott _officially_ feels bad for the chicken. Forget thinly pounded, another 30 seconds and it might go into paper thin territory. "And you know what!" Stiles finishes with a few more mallet smacks. "If you can't see that then I feel sorry for you!"  
  


He turns to look at Scott, pink cheeked and a little crazy eyed. Scott simply looks at him, looks at the chicken and then back at his friend. He hopes that his face says it all because he's kind of beyond words at this point. Why oh _why_ does his best friend get infatuated with people who are way out of his league? Not that Scott is going to bring that up again, not now anyways, not without a lot of liquor on hand.  
  


All he can do presently is stare at Stiles and hope that he can silently get across that Stiles is giving off crazy fumes. For his part, Stiles clears his throat and adjusts his neckerchief. "Anyways," He says with mock cheer, "she's probably gonna self destruct on her own and totally give away her true nature. You just can't hide evil like that."  
  


"Sure," Scott offers freely because it's a safe reply. One that means that they can put this conversation behind them. He takes over for Stiles, bumping him over towards the crabs while he prepares the rest of Date's meal. All he's got to do is give the chicken a quick marinade and brush on the sauce,  toss it on a hot grill, make a salad in the meanwhile and voila! Grilled Chicken Paillard done.  
  


"What you gonna do about the Crab Napoleon?" Scott asks, moving back to Danny's order. He works quickly, battering the meat before carefully dipping the pieces into the now hot oil. That gives him around 10 minutes to deal with Date's order.  
  


Stiles scowls down at the pot of boiled crabs. "Can I stick it down the chute?" he replies with a hopeful grin. Some days he doesn't get why Stiles still thinks that ignoring a problem is the best way to deal with it. So he gives the man a reproachful look before chopping a small shallot. "Ugh fine. I guess I'll wing it then. Don't they say that you should improvise in the kitchen? Lets see what we got..."  
  


As he mixes together the shallots with olive oil, black pepper and lemon juice, Scott quietly apologizes to their customers and knows in his heart that they're probably never going to return. Which is totally going to be alright so long as they don't get food poisoning from Stiles' 'improvised' Crab Napoleon. Scott's an optimist and he can hope for the best. Or more like pray for it.  
  


Scott’s praying as hard as he can when he tosses the chicken onto the grill. The hiss of meat cooking is like music to his ears. Scott pokes at it until it's flattened on the grill, taking an appreciative sniff of the lovely smell that's wafting up to him. "Y'know," Stiles muses, busily chopping something over on his side of the kitchen, "Just once I wish that I could make something really... _delectable_."  
  


"Delectable?" Scott questions, giving Stiles a curious look before moving to check on the deep fried chicken. It's looking good and, Scott glances up at the wall clock, needs another few minutes. Perfect! He moves around Stiles to get to the fridge, pulling out arugula, tomatoes and onions before returning to pull the grilled chicken off.  
  


Stiles is looking dreamy, similar to how he used to look at Lydia in their early years. His hands are still moving, however, so Scott _really_ hopes that he's not going to slice his hand open or anything. That...would be one bad thing too many in an already bad day. "Yeah. Like..." Stiles continues in a low voice. "Something _great_. All the flavors coming together _just right_. It'd be like the perfect party on your tongue."  
  


With a tiny snort, Scott checks on the cornbread in the oven before pulling it out. He puts the pan down next to the chopped vegetables and moves to pull the chicken out of the hot oil. "It'd be like that scene from Matrix: Reloaded. One bite and it's like, boom! Foodgasm. Without the actual orgasm part, but it'd feel really close to it cause it'd be just that delicious..."  
  


Scott tries not to think about a restaurant that makes food so good that people orgasm because of it. That's weird. It's just _really, really_ weird. He cuts two generous portions of cornbread from the pan, placing it gently next to the fried chicken. And where has he put that salad that's- ah, there it is! Scott pulls the bowl forward, scooping up the salad that he's prepared earlier in the day.  
  


One order down. Scott rings the bell which signals Erica that an order is ready. Speaking of ready... Scott arranges the grilled chicken on a new plate before quickly mixing together the greens that go with it. Stiles is murmuring synonyms for 'delicious' for some reason. It's kind of making Scott hungry actually. Which is stupid ‘cause they had lunch barely an hour ago.  
  


He's chopping a lemon into halves for garnish when Scott realizes that Stiles has gone quiet. That's never a good sign. More than a little worried, Scott hurries over to check on his best friend, wondering what went wrong. Maybe if they offer the couple complimentary drinks and appetizers then they wouldn't mind-  
  


Scott stares down at the dish that Stiles has put together. It looks... "How did you do that?" He asks, eyes widening in disbelief because the end product looks _amazing!_ The contrast between the sauce and the meat alone is... Plus there's the arrangement and the portion size...  
  


"The people we don't know want their food," Erica declares right off the bat, heels clicking against the floor as she walks in. Scott looks up at her, still feeling more than a little shell shocked at the sight in front of him. The blond raises an unimpressed eyebrow before looking at Stiles and then at the plate in front of him. She blinks and takes another step forward. "That... looks _great_! Who made that?"  
  


Scott points at Stiles who points at himself. Erica looks at them both before asking, "No, seriously." The crab hiding under a giant cabbage leaf blinks serenely at the trio and ignores the indignant cry Stiles lets out.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


Derek's been up since 5 a.m., trailing after a high maintenance chef who had shopped around what felt like all of New York, before coming back to the main office just in time to meet and greet the press to inform them about the new restaurant that was... _Jesus, opening up in less than two weeks_!  
  


And of course there's the part where some guy had grabbed his feet, warned him about a crab, gotten snapped at _by_ the crab and then Derek had somehow gotten dragged into an argument with the boy (who looked like he was a college student but _claimed_ to own and run his own restaurant which, Derek didn't believe him for _one second_ ).  
  


Once back at Hale Associates, Derek had barely finished talking to the reporters when Laura had walked up to him, informing him that Kate was waiting in his office. Despite rushing, he'd caught his girlfriend right as she was stepping out.  
  


Kate had immediately drawn him in with a kiss, informing him that she had downloaded her schedule onto his iPad and that she would come back to the office later to pick him up for their lunch date. A few more kisses later, Kate had strolled away and out of the building.  
  


Laura had laughed until she was coughing and wheezing into her hand when she'd seen the synced schedules, joking that it was a huge step on Derek's part to share his cyberspace with someone else. Derek had spent the next 10 minutes explaining to his older sister about how and why he was going to break up with Kate.  
  


(Because they were past the fifth date line and _everything_ went to hell after the fifth date in his experience. Just don't ask him why, but _it does_. The sixth date is always a disaster. _Always_. He's just going to nip this one in the bud and spare himself the heart/headache, thank you _very much_.)  
  


Breaking up with Kate over lunch meant finding a place to _have_ lunch. And Derek really didn't want to break up with the woman in a restaurant he _liked_ going to. So Derek had figured to kill two birds with one stone by looking up and making a lunch reservation at The Beacon. This way, he could try that Crab Napoleon that the chef had been boasting about (and find out he was right about the kid being nothing more than a wanna-be chef) _and_ break up with Kate in a restaurant that he'd never return to anyways. Perfect really.  
  


' _At least it looks good,_ ' Derek reluctantly admits to himself, turning the plate slightly so that he can get a good look at his meal. He knows that he's being mean when he thinks that, because he had walked into The Beacon with close to little expectations of good food. And honestly? This looks like the kind of dish you'd find uptown instead of in a tiny hole in the wall restaurant in downtown New York. But just because something looks good doesn't mean that it'll taste good too, a lesson he's learned the hard way (read: Cora's cooking attempts).  
  


He looks over at Kate's dish, which also looks incredibly appetizing. "This looks good," Kate murmurs to herself. Maybe the guy from this morning hadn't been lying when he'd boasted that he was a proper chef. Derek peeks up at the kitchen doors and tries not to smirk when two heads suddenly duck down from the windows.  
  


With a small shake of his head, Derek picks up his fork and just dives in. "Kate. I've been meaning to talk to you about something." He focuses on eating his food, keeping his eyes on his plate rather than on Kate. "I've been thinking a lot about us and-"  
  


"Me too." The smooth reply makes Derek pause and look up with mild alarm. She has? That's not good. Kate's got that intense look in her eyes, the same one that had initially caught his interest. It pierces through him, makes him feel naked and vulnerable for reasons he can't pinpoint. Right now though, it makes him want to squirm guiltily.  
  


"I feel closer to you already," Kate continues coyly, reaching out to give Derek's free hand a quick squeeze. Derek can feel the suede toe of her heels sliding up against his calf, intimate and familiar. It makes him feel like shit for what he's about to do.  
  


Derek ignores the way her fingers are stroking his hand when he dumbly asks, "You do?" She does? After only a few dates? Maybe Peter had been right in his ominous warning that something was off about Kate.  
  


He looks down at his plate, catching a large piece of crab meat with his fork as Kate squeezes his hand and answers. "Of _course_ I do. With us merging our schedules and all, I'll always know where you are, what you're doing." Derek tries not to think that that's a little too possessive for his taste and sticks his fork into his mouth.  
  


The first bite is... Derek has to close his eyes and just _savor_ it. He's at a loss for words to describe how all the flavors mix together so perfectly. "Oh my God," he sighs, incredulous and so wonderfully surprised. He takes back whatever he's thought and assumed about this restaurant because this lunch makes up for the utter headache that his day has been so far.  
  


The second bite is somehow better than the first. It makes Derek's toes curl inside his shoes and his mouth let out a pleased little groan. _God,_ this tastes all kinds of delicious. He opens his eyes, feeling a little dazed when he sees Kate coughing hard. "Are you okay?" Derek asks with concern, looking down at the food before up at Kate as she waves her hand.  
  


Not choking on her food then, that's good. That means he can take another bite of his Crab Napoleon. _Wow_. "Maybe you should drink some of your ice tea?" Derek suggests, holding the glass out to her. But Kate waves it away, coughing a few more times before she seems to control it. "Are you okay?"  
  


"I think so," She replies, "I can't believe how easy it's been to fool you."  
  


A good deal of the pleasant food-induced haze vanishes at Kate's words, making Derek ask, "What?" If he's surprised at the strange statement, Kate is _at least_ twice as surprised. But clearly not a little bit sorry when she presses her lips together and her face changes - goes from a it's usual warm-softness to a sharp-angry look Derek doesn't recognize.  
  


"What did you just say?" He asks again, wondering if maybe he's misheard her.  
  


"You heard me." Gone is her honey-sweet voice, replaced instead with a tone that is mocking in its undertones. "You've been so stupidly easy to play. I can't believe that I was ever worried about your finding out that I've been playing you."  
  


Derek decides that he needs another bite of his food before he can talk more about this because what the hell? This is completely unlike the Kate that he knows. Granted they’ve only been on 3 dates, but this attitude? It's like Kate's suddenly been taken over by another entity or something because even the way she's sitting seems to have changed. Her smile is cruel instead of soft, eyes sharp and hard.  
  


"What do you mean, playing me?" Derek asks, taking another bite without thinking. He wonders why he doesn't feel more upset.  
  


But all he can focus on right now is this simply delectable meal in front of him. Derek's having a hard time paying attention to anything that isn't the food on his plate. It's a shame if Kate won't try hers after that first bite.  
  


He can't stop himself from taking a few more bites, one after another as Kate becomes angrier and angrier. "Oh, sweetie." Wavy blonde hair brushes softly against her shoulders when Kate shakes her head with mock pity before giving Derek a scornful look. "It's a good thing you're pretty because this?" She taps one finger against her own head, "You're lacking in that department."  
  


Derek looks at her, feeling serene, as Kate shakes her head and leans back in her seat. "Gerard told me that it would be hard to break into your company and I was ready to do whatever was necessary, but you... you made it so _easy_."  
  


His eyebrows rise up, going higher and higher as Kate continues her odd monologue in a sickly sweet tone. Derek is well aware that he needs to feel... something at her admissions that go as far as hacking into his computer and searching for the company accounts. But there's a food induced fog clouding his brain, acting like a shield against Kate's poisonous words.  
  


"You didn't even realize that I was an Argent!" Kate scoffs, taking a large bite of her chicken. Argent? Wasn't her last name Silver? Derek takes a sip of his iced tea, starting when Kate drops the knife and fork with a careless clatter. "I don't understand why Gerard's so worried about the Hale's success when you're there. If the way you work is anything like the way you act in bed, it's not going to work out."  
  


There's an odd choking sound from the table behind them, followed by a low 'Ouch' at Kate's careless comment. Derek stares in bewilderment as his date sighs, rolls her head in a manner that clearly says she's tired of everything. "You can't do anything right when it's just you. Things _always_ get fucked up. Anything and everything you touch gets spoiled. The same is going to happen with your new restaurant."  
  


Derek's trying to swallow that bitter pill when Kate sweeps up to her feet, plucking her jacket up along the way. "You don't need me to screw things up," she purrs, leaning down to pat Derek's cheek in a way that makes him feel the edge of her nails. There's a broad smile on her painted lips and a hollow look in her eyes. "You're going to do that _all_ on your own."  
  


The sound of Kate's heels clicking against the floor cuts through the silence hanging in the small space. Derek can only stare in front of him, wondering what the hell just happened. The sentiment is echoed by the man sitting in the corner, followed by a quiet murmur by the red head sitting next to him.  
  


He's still reeling when the chef comes out, a worried look on his face. "Is everything alright?" He asks, eyes moving between Kate's empty seat and Derek. "Was your date not satisfied with the food?"  
  


Looking down at his empty plate (which, huh. When did that happen?), Derek shakes his head,but the heavy feeling has already begun to seep into his bones and make him feel leaden. "No, it wasn't the food. The food was _delicious_. She just..." Derek searches for the right words and comes up short. "I'm not sure _what_ happened," he finishes dumbly, giving the empty seat an incredulous look.  
  


When he looks up, Derek catches a mix of emotions flitting over the chef's face. There's a certain degree of pride and happiness mixing in with curious worry, making the man's eyes gleam. They're a pretty brown shade, like melted chocolate and just as warm. His heart thumps unsteadily inside his chest, thumpa-thumping away against his rib cage. Had this guy been just as good looking this morning or was Derek _just_ realizing this?  
  


"Must be the curse of the sixth date," Derek mumbles to himself. That earns him a confused look while he shakes his head, trying to clear his mind. What a weird day it’s been. "I'm sorry for the disturbance she caused. Could I get the check please?"  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


When Laura sees her brother walk into the building with a dazed look on his face, she immediately knows something went wrong at the lunch date. She pushes aside business temporarily, honing in on Derek. All questions she’s got about their new restaurant can wait until she’s sure how he is doing.  
  


"What the hell happened to you?" Laura asks, eyes roving over Derek's body, making sure he's not hurt or anything, before coming up to his face.  
  


Derek looks like he's in shock, following Laura like a lost puppy when she takes him by the elbow and drags him into his office. That’s not a good sign. Usually Derek will at least _pretend_ to put up a fight instead of just following her lead. "How bad was it?" She continues in the next breath, "Did she lose it? Threaten you? C'mon Der, talk to me already!"  
  


"I had," Derek begins in a strangely perplexed tone, "the most delicious and _strangest_ meal of my life. Remember the time Aunt Lois came to visit and-"  
  


"The thing with the chicken and the dog?" Laura continues, rolling her eyes as she remembers _that_ debacle. Long story short, chicken is no longer on the menu for _any_ holiday meal and their dog jumps a mile anytime he hears a clucking noise. Wait. Her eyes widen in shock. "Weirder than that? _How?_ "  
  


Her brother nods, falling back into the plush sofa pressed against the wall. "Kate lost it. She just...It was like she was someone else! She broke up with me and said stuff like she was just using me to take the company down." Disbelief and anger war inside of her at that. How _dare_ **anyone** pull a stunt like that with her little brother, on her _family_. "Her name wasn't even Kate Silver!" Derek blinks at Laura, pale eyes wide. "It was Argent!"  
  


She _knew_ that the blonde had looked familiar! Laura wants to smack a fist into her head. Instead she sighs and covers her eyes with a hand. Everyone knows how the Argent family is hell bent on seeing the Hale family fail in every business venture. Laura wants to meet Gerard Argent and give him a piece of her mind, sarcastically telling him if he were to give his business half the dedication and attention he gives to ‘ruining’ her family, their business might be a success. Then again, given Gerard Argent’s tendency for underhanded tactics and too aggressive strategies, that might never happen.  
  


To be honest, Laura can’t believe anyone can hold a grudge for as long as Gerard Argent has. It’s been _decades_ since grandfather politely declined the Argent’s offer to enter into a partnership but Gerard Argent’s hate is still going strong. _‘It’s no wonder their business isn’t doing too well if he keeps focusing on bringing us down instead of bringing his own company up.’_ Laura muses.  
  


There's guilt stewing around in the pit of her stomach as Derek continues. "I _know_ I should be more upset that she broke up with me after telling me that she just wanted to use me, but...I can't stop thinking about that crab...thing I ate."  
  


Say what? Laura blinks at Derek, feeling utterly bewildered at the far away look he's sporting. She raises a hand up, pinches the bridge of her nose, tries to focus _and_ hopes to get Derek's head out of the weird food coma it's gone into. "So let me get this straight," she begins, "You went to dinner with Kate Silver, who as it turns out, is actually Kate _Argent_ , wanting to break up with her. But she broke up with you instead. _After_ tellingyou that she was using you and wanted to see you fail?"  
  


Derek stares at her, frowning slightly. "Yeah. That's what happened." He sighs, leaning forward before he scrubs both hands through his hair. "I can't believe this happened. I just..." Laura immediately moves to sit next to her brother, arm curling over his shoulder as she pulls him against her.  
  


He sighs quietly into her hair, accepting the comfort she's offering, before rubbing his cheek into the dark strands. Stroking his arm, Laura hugs him as hard as she can and promises bloody vengeance on Kate Argent (and their whole damned family) when Derek mumbles into her hair, "I guess it goes without saying that she never liked me in the first place."  
  


Laura gives him a another hard squeeze for that one. There are so many things that she can say to console him - Forget about her! She's not worth it, Der! We all know that she's always had a reputation for being unhinged. You'll find someone better. But she's getting the feeling that Derek might need something... stronger. "Want me to swing by your place tonight with some booze and movies?" she asks instead.  
  


The warm huff that ruffles her hair makes her smile. "No Nicholas Sparks movies," Derek answers.  
  


Laura leans back, pretending to look insulted. "As _if_ I'd put you through that. We're gonna have an Ewan McGregor marathon!" When Derek groans and falls back into the sofa, she waggles a finger at him. "Ah, ah, ah! I know you like the guy too, so don't even try to talk your way out of it."  
  


Derek grumbles under his breath, something that sounds like 'I regret ever telling you about my crush on that guy' before he asks in his normal voice, "At least tell me you'll get _Black Hawk Down_." Laura simply grins an evil Cheshire cat smile. It makes Derek roll his eyes and tip his head back. "I'm going to watch _Big Fish_ and _Moulin Rouge_ again, aren't I?"  
  


"Yeeeeep," Laura chirps, hands already patting down Derek's body in search of his wallet. "Not to mention _Down with Love_ , which is a _classic_. Which means I'm gonna need your card for the movie store near your apartment. By the way, the 21st century called and it would like to inform you about Netflix."  
  


It's kind of cute how Derek prefers to have a membership card at the movie rental store rather than a Netflix account. And how he'd rather read a report on paper than one on his computer or tablet. Peter teases him relentlessly on the matter, Derek acts like he never hears a thing.  
  


Laura frowns as she checks her brother's pants pockets. "Where the hell is your wallet?" Derek's hands join her in their search and they both come up empty. "You didn't get pick pocketed did you?" she asks, eyebrows raised.  
  


Derek makes his usual displeased frowny face that makes Laura feel a touch better, because it's normal. It means that Derek isn't letting the Kate thing get to him too deeply, which is good. "I... might have forgotten it at the restaurant?" Derek answers slowly. "Or the cab. I'm not sure..."  
  


"Might as well kiss it goodbye either way." Laura sighs, giving Derek's chest a sympathetic little pat. "C'mon, move your butt. Peter wants to talk to you about the décor for the restaurant. He's been complaining about the floor pattern you picked out. Says it's making him dizzy."  
  


Derek rolls his eyes hard, “I don’t know why he put me in charge of getting the restaurant on it’s feet when he’s keeps questioning every decision I make.”  
  


“You know Peter.” Laura responds dryly, “He doesn’t trust anyone but himself to do a good job. And he’s not happy if he’s not annoying everyone to the point they want to throw him out the window.”  
  


Derek grimaces in agreement.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


Shrugging his jacket off, Scott drapes it over the chair before he sits down next to Stiles. "What're you looking at?" he asks, elbows on the table and leaning in to check the cookbook that Stiles has been perusing for a while now.  
  


It's one of the few dessert books they have, one that Stiles frequently pulls out to drool over some of the fancier pastries. Today's pastry of choice appears to be some kind of éclair that's glazed and topped with some kind of fruit sauce. "What do you think?" Stiles asks, pushing the book towards Scott.  
  


Scott looks at the picture Stiles is tapping before looking back up. "They look delicious. What bout 'em?" He truly hopes that he's not going to be asked to make them, because baking? _Not_ his forte. It _says_ something when he can't even make sugar cookies, okay? Why Stiles can't get that Scott and baked goods just don't get along is yet another mystery in life.  
  


Waaaait a second. Stiles' eyebrows are way up, a hopeful upturn to his smile. This only means one thing. One thing that has more potential for disaster than Scott baking. He emphatically shakes his head. "Stiles. _No_."  
  


The smile on his best friend’s face only grows as he nods in reply. Scott shakes his head again before trying once more, "You remember what happened the _last time_ you tried to make something more complicated than chocolate chip cookies?" Scott does. He's even got the scars to prove it.  
  


Stiles makes a face, not enjoying the reminder of his own baking fail. "That was _then_ ," he insists, pulling the book back toward him. "I'm in the zone today!" Scott's not gonna argue that because it's true.  
  


It's _weird!_ Not only did Stiles manage to whip up an _amazing_ meal out of _nowhere_ , he'd carried the same performance on to dinner! The few customers who had walked in skeptical, had walked out raving about the delicious food.  
  


Scratching his head, Scott pulls the book back so that he can read the recipe. "Why do you wanna make 'em anyways? If you feel like having something sweet then we can make some brownies. And get some ice cream too."  
  


The flush that blooms over Stiles' cheek, coupled with the way he glances away from Scott, makes him sigh internally and groan, _'Oh boy. Here it comes_.' That's stage 2 of Stiles' infatuation mode and it often means crazy plans to woo the object of his affections.  
  


"You know the guy from before? Crabby?" Scott nods. It's difficult to forget someone who gets dumped so viciously in a restaurant. Bad enough to be dumped, but in public? _Topped_ with the bombshell that you mean _nothing_ to the other person? Scott wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy. "He forgot his wallet here so I thought I'd go to his office and return it."  
  


Scott's eyebrows go up on their own, showing his confusion. "What's that got to do with trying to make these?" He points down at the book.  
  


"I just thought he might like something to cheer him up," Stiles offers, his smile as weak as his explanation. Scott gives Stiles his best judgemental look, complete with quirked eyebrow. “Cause he just broke up with his girlfriend and forgot his wallet here?"  
  


Scott tries his best not to sigh as he thinks that it's time to play the devil's advocate. "Stiles..." He begins hesitantly, "Do you really think this is a good idea? I mean. The guy _just_ broke up with his girlfriend. _Girl_ friend."  
  


"They'd only been on six dates together!" Stiles replies immediately, a little too quickly for Scott's peace of mind. "He said so himself! And I figured that I'd try to see if he's interested or not by visiting him..."  
  


He looks at Stiles, long and hard before Scott sighs and points at Stiles' face. "If I come back here in the morning and find out that you've blown the place up, I'm gonna blame you and not the flour this time. And find another place for that crab that’s hiding behind the sauce bottles. If we’re keeping it, we need to buy a tank or something. I don’t want my fingers to get snapped at again when I want to grab the hot sauce."  
  


The next morning, as Scott is juggling several bags of produce while trying to open the door, he wonders how bad the kitchen looks post Stiles’ attempt at baking. In anticipation of a great mess, Scott's bought extra eggs, flour and herbs. And Stiles’ favorite fruit tarts from the bakery three blocks down. Never let it be said that Scott is not a forward thinker or an excellent friend.  
  


He enters into the restaurant back first, wincing when one of the bags whacks into the doors. _‘Hope the peaches didn’t get bruised._ ’ Scott thinks, pausing to take a cautious sniff. Something smells _great_. Scott turns around to place the heavy bags on the first available counter, which turns out to be the bar, and follows his nose to the kitchen.  
  


Every available surface is covered with a tray housing several lines of glazed pastries, the same ones that Stiles had been showing him the day past. Scott takes a deep, appreciative smell which has permeated through the restaurant. Is there any smell in the world which can compare to the warm smell of fresh, sweet pastries?  
  


Scott plucks one pastry out of the tray. Examines it from every angle and wonders if it tastes as good as it smells and looks. He tears a small piece of it off, pops it into his mouth.  
  


His eyes close on their own accord, delight zinging through his system, starting from his taste buds. The eclair is melting in his mouth, combining with the honey-sweet glaze that's got a faint sharpness to it that keeps the overall flavor from being too sweet. "Wow." Scott breathes out, amazed beyond words. "He did it."  
  


What the hell is going on? How did Stiles manage to make all these pastries in... Scott pauses a moment and wonders how long Stiles spent baking all these desserts. "This is seriously weird." Scott declares to the crab dozing peacefully next to the oyster sauce on the high shelf.  
  


The crustacean peers sleepily at him as Scott steps towards the staircase. He can hear someone stomping down the stairs. Pushing the door further open, Scott looks up and sees- "Jackson?" Scott asks, voice high in confusion. "What the hell are you doing here?"  
  


Blue eyes roll down at him, exasperation in every line of the man's body. "Finally! _You_ deal with Stilinski. I can't take it anymore." Scott hurriedly steps out of the blond's way as he walks out of the kitchen muttering about plaid bombs. What the hell?  
  


As quick as he can, Scott makes his way upstairs into the tiny apartment while calling out, "Stiles? Where are you?"  
  


"In here." The feminine voice that answers back makes Scott's confusion triple. Lydia? Seriously, what was going on and why hadn't anyone told Scott? He can't see the woman from his present view, but he _can_ hear her chiding Stiles for something. "No, no, not the red ones!"  
  


Stiles' voice is muffled when he replies, "What's wrong with the red ones?"  
  


Scott steps into the bedroom and gets whacked in the nose by a pair of red jeans. "They say 'I'm trying too hard to get you to notice me.’"  
  


“But I _want_ him to notice me!” Stiles mumbles under his breath  
  


Lydia pushes Stiles out of the way to dig through the man's closet herself. "Where are those dark jeans I got you last Christmas?"  
  


As he peels the jeans off his face, Scott catches Stiles rolling his eyes. "You mean the ones that were so tight I thought my balls were going to fall off because of the lack of blood flowing to them? _Those_ jeans?" Even Scott remembers those jeans. Lydia had insisted Stiles wear those jeans to her New Years party and Stiles had spent the entire time fidgeting and wriggling around while complaining that he could no longer feel his nuts.  
  


"What's going on?" He asks plaintively while more clothes fly out of the closet to land on Stiles' bed, increasing the pile already there. Hey, is that his sweater? Scott makes a dive for the green sweater before it gets buried under more layers.  
  


Lydia continues to dig through Stiles' 'It's not messy, it's my personal organization system' closet while his best friend answers. "Remember how I told you about returning the wallet?" Scott nods and moves away as he almost gets another pair of jeans in his face. "I found a business card in there. The guys name is Derek Hale. He works at Hale Associates. I called them up this morning and the lady told me that he'd be uptown working on-site and that I could go return his wallet to him myself! I got the address and everything!"  
  


That sounds... a little bit suspicious. Scott watches Lydia strong arm Stiles into one of his nicer button down shirts before clicking her tongue and turning back to the closet. "She didn't tell you to drop it off with her at the office?"  
  


"Ow, ow! Easy on the arms, Lydia!" Stiles complains as the redhead forces his arms through a sweater vest she's pulled out of nowhere. "She actually sounded... scared? Like, I'd be doing her a favor if I gave the wallet back myself. Weird right?" Indeed it is. Since when did Stiles have a sweater vest? It's weird as hell!  
  


Lydia stares at the combination with narrowed eyes before she pulls the sweater off and pushes Stiles into a hoodie, saying, "What's weird is that Hale Associates is choosing to enter into the restaurant business when they don't have any expertise in it. And getting Derek to lead the project is extremely risky. He doesn’t have nearly enough experience for a project this big."  
  


Stiles and Scott exchange a blank look before Scott asks, "You know the guy?"  
  


The girl flips her braid over her shoulder, handing Stiles another button down shirt with the dreaded black jeans. "Go put these on. Don't question me." Stiles grumbles and heads for the bathroom as Lydia turns towards Scott. "I've heard of them. I think Daddy's done some business with Peter Hale. Derek's got a good head on his shoulders, but he's never really shown any initiative to be a leader. Daddy said that he's more of a worker bee than a leader."  
  


Scratching his head, Scott wonders how to reply to that. He's saved when Stiles steps out with his hands out by his side. "What do you think? Good, bad, burn forever?"  
  


Lydia tilts her head, stepping forward to adjust Stiles' tie quickly before patting his shirt down. "Good. Now shoes." She points at the sneakers before walking over to sit down on Stiles' bed. "I need to ask this. What do you plan on saying when you meet him."  
  


Excellent question. Scott nods quickly to show his support. "Yeah! What are you gonna talk about with the guy?" It's best that they go over this right now or else there's a good chance that Stiles, in his nervousness, might start babbling. And that _rarely_ ends well given the random tangents Stiles' brain tends to go on.  
  


When Stiles doesn't pay attention to his words, he winds up going from talking about introducing a new item on the menu to discussing why American businesses should have IASB standards rather than the standard GAAP. Like Scott said. Tangents.  
  


Stiles pauses with one sock half-way on, leaning back against the closet door to close it, mouth falling open. "Uh. Here. You forgot this at the restaurant, sorry for your loss, I brought you some eclairs because you forgot dessert and I want to ban-"  
  


"Stop while you're ahead," Lydia cuts him off immediately, lips twitching as she tries not to smile. Scott doesn't even try to hold his grin in as Stiles smirks and pulls his sock on all the way. His friend moves to put the second sock on as Lydia says, "You need a better topic. Something that will appeal to him."  
  


She turns to Scott, one eyebrow arched high. "What do guys talk about? What interests you, generally speaking?"  
  


Stiles looks at Scott, who looks back at him for a second before they turn as one towards Lydia and reply, "Sex."  
  


The girl's expression goes flat in a second. "You can't talk about sex."  
  


Scott holds a hand up as he speaks, counting a topic off each finger "Well, there's sports, cars, money..." He pauses before grinning wryly. “Nope, we think mostly about sex."  
  


Lydia's scathing glare says 'how old are you' with such vehemence that Scott fears for his life. "I saw this special on Dateline," Stiles begins as he hops in place trying to get his sneakers on as Lydia's judgemental glare shifts to him immediately, "that said that guys think about sex 238 times a day."  
  


Scott frowns at his friend. "How do you remember that?"  
  


He's expecting Lydia to comment as well, but she's frowning in a distracted manner. "238 times a day?" she asks skeptically, gaze ticking over to Jackson who has just returned and is now discreetly eyeing Stiles' action figures neatly lined up on the bookshelf. "That means guys think about sex every 4 minutes?"  
  


Stiles looks at Jackson before looking back at Scott before he shrugs. "More or less, yeah." Jackson mumbles something under his breath and picks up the Saint Walker figure, but it sounds like an agreement to Scott. For his part, Scott makes a playfully resigned face and shrugs as well.  
  


Stiles sits down on the clothes pile, fingers pulling and tugging on the shoe strings. "You know how guys keep adjusting or touching their belts?" There's warning bells ringing in Scott's head, or as he affectionately calls it, his “Stiles sense”. It always goes off a few seconds before he knows his best friend is going to say something Scott isn't going to like hearing.  
  


Lydia is eyeing Stiles with the same skeptical look. "Yeah. What about it?"  
  


"Guys do that when they're thinking about sex." And there it is.  
  


Scott groans and buries his face in his hands. "Why'd you tell us that! I'm never gonna get that thought outta my head! Oh _God!_ Mr. Cho down at the supermarket is _always_ adjusting his belt when I'm at his shop! Thanks a lot, Stiles!"  
  


Jackson throws the Saint Walker figure at Stiles, who yelps and ducks to avoid the flying object. Lydia rolls her eyes at the antics, muttering, "Boys" under her breath like it's an insult.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


Derek hates tequila with every fiber of his hungover being. He also really hates Wednesdays. It’s too far into the week and too far away from the weekend that he so desperately wants to enjoy. Then again, being this close to the restaurant opening, Derek doesn't have the luxury of taking his weekend off like the rest of the sane world.  
  


He has investors to meet, greet and reassure that everything is going according to plan despite the fact that they are over budget, have a temperamental French chef whose demands keep growing more and more outrageous, and his crazy uncle who keeps calling him at insane hours asking him to explain things that Derek already explained _months_ ago.  
  


Scrubbing a hand over his face, Derek tries not to sigh as the balding foreman slowly explains how the restaurant doors have wound up in another state thanks to some clerical error.  
  


Boyd, thank God for the man, steps forward to hash out the details out. "Just to be clear, Tom, we're not going to be paying extra for transportation," Boyd starts in his low voice, a stern look in his eyes as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. “This was not a mistake on our part.”  
  


Tom immediately begins to argue, but thankfully Isaac sticks his head in through the heavy plastic sheets covering the main entrance. Derek watches the man as he looks around, obviously looking for someone.  
  


Isaac frowns as he glances over the different people working around the room before, finally, he meets Derek's eyes. Derek comes close to thanking God aloud in gratitude when Isaac's eyes brighten and he gestures for Derek to come over.  
  


"Boyd, you can handle this right?" Derek asks, but it's really a moot question. Without checking Boyd's reaction, Derek swiftly crosses the room to where Isaac is waiting for him. He stops halfway through the journey to roll his eyes at the pair of workers arguing over the floor design pattern. Derek pauses to listen to them, cringing when he remembers Peter’s complaints on the same matter. He listens to them argue for a few seconds before stepping up to them and telling them, “It’s supposed to be like _this_.”  
  


As he walks away, Derek sees Isaac's lips twitch and press together as the man tries not to laugh at how the workers behind him have reacted. It's a terrible temptation to look back and see what kind of faces the men are making, but Derek's more professional than that. He walks forward until Isaac is within earshot. "Isaac," Derek greets.  
  


Isaac's taken his blazer off and has rolled his sleeves up. Clearly he's not able to deal with the lack of airconditioning in the restaurant. Derek makes a mental note to get on that as soon as he's done with some other business.  
  


"There's this guy outside who says that he found your wallet in his restaurant," Isaac says, holding a familiar black leather wallet out towards Derek. Derek stares at his wallet, quickly accepting it from Isaac's outstretched hand. He flips it open, does a quick check of his money and cards before he lets out a relieved sigh - everything's in its place.  
  


Restaurant, huh? Derek wonders who the good samaritan is. It has to be the chef, right? A tiny flare of hope makes him ask, "Did he say who he was?" He tries not to sound too hopeful, but realizes that he's failing terribly halfway through his query. "I'd like to thank him."  
  


Isaac raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Actually, he's still outside. He said that he had something else to give you."  
  


Interest aroused, Derek nods and sweeps the plastic aside to step into the waiting area. Behind his back, Isaac yells, "Boyd! You seen Cora? I got some updates about the stuff that Jean Paul said he wanted to order."  
  


Boyd's answer is lost in the drilling noise that starts up. It's loud enough to make Derek cringe and his migraine throb. Christ! No more tequila for him, not ever. He's trying to soothe the ache out of his brain when he hears a familiar voice say, too loudly and too happily for his comfort, "Hi!"  
  


Although his aching head yells in more pain, his heart leaps with joy because it's the cute chef from yesterday. And he looks flat out sexy today. Derek takes in the man's tight jeans, button down shirt, coiffed hair and thinks, _'Wow_.’  
  


The chef jacket does this man no justice at _all_. Derek had not realized that there was such a body underneath the bulky jacket. The broad shoulders and those forearms... Christ, the legs _alone_. "Hey." Derek greets back, hoping that he looks good and not as bad as he feels. "I uh... thank you. For returning my wallet."  
  


The young man beams at him, hands releasing the bag strap they've been holding onto. Derek glances down at the bag as it bangs against the chef's hip as he rocks in place. "S' cool. I mean, it was no trouble. Although I hope it was alright that I went through it to find out who it belonged to?"  
  


Derek half smiles and nods. "Of course. Completely alright."  
  


He's taken aback when, through some magic surely, the chef's smile grows more brilliant as he holds his hand out. "I figure since I know your name now, you should know mine too. Stiles."  
  


Accepting Stiles' hand on autopilot, Derek stumbles briefly at the peculiar name. "Stiles?" He asks, half distracted by the feeling of the rough hand in his own. Stiles' hand is about the same size as his own. But the man’s longer fingers are more elegant than his own thick digits.  
  


Derek focuses his attention on the two fingertips that are resting gentle-firm against his wrist bone and the sweet, sweet drag of them as Stiles takes his hand back.  
  


"It's a nickname," Stiles explains with a self-deprecatory look. "My real name is this... it's unpronounceable, even for me. So, Stiles."  
  


"Derek," he introduces himself before holding back a wince. Stiles already knows that. Better cover that up quick. What can he follow that up with... "I’m really sorry about yesterday. Th-"  
  


Stiles waves a hand at him, careless and far too elegant for such a simple motion. "Don't worry about it. Happens all the time."  
  


The blithe tone and amused twinkle in his eyes pulls at Derek's sense of humor. It's not often that he meets someone who makes him want to... play, for lack of a better word. Derek can't help but inquire, as dryly as possible, "Does it now?"  
  


"Oh, totally," Stiles replies gravely, a mock serious expression on his face. "We've got Break-Up Tuesday's twice a month. There's plates flying into the wall, lots of yelling and sometimes people get mashed potatoes rubbed into their nose."  
  


Derek chuckles, hands slipping into his pants pockets. "Those nights must be very interesting." His good mirth sits inside his chest like a warm ball of sunshine, making Derek feel relaxed in a way he hasn't felt for a while now. "I still apologize for her actions. She's usually very calm and collected. I don't know what came over her actually..."  
  


He tries not to remember her words, or the sting of truth in them. He's grateful that Stiles is quick to reply. It keeps Derek from listening to Kate's words that are still echoing in his head. "You didn't do anything to provoke her, did you?"  
  


"No," Derek shoots back immediately, smirking as he asks, "Did you?"  
  


Stiles freezes for a quick second before he laughs loudly, "Yeah, right!" The sound of his laugh seems too big for the space that they're standing in. It makes his heart squeeze in a manner so unfamiliar, so _painfully_ sweet that Derek feels his breath leave his lungs in a rush.  
  


"Oh!" Derek blinks, shaken out of his daze at Stiles’ sudden exclamation. He watches the man dig through his bag, biting his bottom lip. "I almost forgot. Here." Stiles is holding a small box out for him, bag still flipped open. Derek stares at the box and the proud-shy smile directed at him, feeling his stomach twist. How is it possible for any person to look so damned _sweet_? "Your lunch came with dessert."  
  


"Dessert?" Derek repeated with interest, accepting the box. It's light, not heavy in the way that suggests several cupcakes or muffins. He glances over the logo - a lighthouse - before looking questioningly at Stiles.  
  


It could be the lighting, but Derek swears that Stiles' eyes brighten, appearing to have a clear golden tint to them. "I love dessert. It's the whole point of a meal. That's what my mom always said."  
  


He needs to reply to that, Derek knows this. But he can't bring himself to do so. The weight of Stiles' earnest gaze on him is making Derek's tongue feel heavier than concrete. He's not just imagining this, right? This... _attraction_ between them? Derek would dearly love a second opinion from someone trustworthy.  
  


God, he doesn't need this right now. _Not_ right now when his career depends on the successful launch of the restaurant. Derek ducks his head, focusing on the box in his hand. "Do you mind if I...?" He asks, glancing up at Stiles as his finger begin to pull the box open.  
  


Stiles gestures at him to go ahead.  
  


There are perhaps a dozen pastries inside the box, kind of like tiny baked eclairs. However, instead of chocolate, they’re glazed with a rich red sauce instead. Strawberry maybe? Derek raises the box up and inhales the sweet aroma of the pastries. His eyes flutter shut of their own accord and his stomach immediately makes its interest known.  
  


He plucks one of the bite sized eclairs out, the sticky sweet syrup clinging to his fingertips in a way that makes Derek’s mouth water. If yesterday’s meal was anything to go by, these pastries were going to taste _exquisite_.  
  


The first bite proves his assumption right. Derek squeezes his eyes shut and moans quietly at the burst of flavors - sweet, buttery, _decadent_ flavors that dance over his tastebuds. The outside of the pastry is a tiny bit crunchy, but the inside... The inside is gooey-warm-soft, filled with the most delicious sweet sauce that Derek’s ever eaten.  
  


Derek greedily bites down on the other half of the pastry, licking his fingers clean before he groans again.  
  


“Do you like it?” The hesitant question reminds Derek that he’s not alone.  
  


He blinks, startled, at Stiles. Does he like it? Derek chews on the pastry, overwhelmed with just how fucking _great_ this eclair is.  
  


“This...this is _incredible_!” That said, he plucks another eclair out of the box and pops the whole thing into his mouth, chewing on it with great relish.  
  


Oh God, take him now and he’ll go happy as a clam. So long as he gets to take the rest of the box with him. _Christ_. How is it possible for something so small and innocent looking to taste so fucking delicious?  
  


The heavy rustle of plastic sheets precedes the sound of Cora’s low heels clicking against the floor. Derek doesn’t get why she insists on wearing heels when the floor is half complete. One of these days, and he’s certain of this, she’s going to put her foot where it literally doesn’t belong and sprain her ankle.  
  


“Derek,” she greets, holding out a clipboard with several papers clipped to it. “I need your signature on these forms.”  
  


When his younger sister’s glance falls on the box in his hands, Derek protectively shields it from her gaze. He quickly snaps up the pen she’s holding out, signs on the dotted line and shoos her away. “Rude!” He hears Cora mutter under her breath, tossing a curious look their way before she gives her now sticky pen a disgruntled look.  
  


That was close. There’s no way that Derek wants to share these eclairs, or Stiles for that matter, with anyone. Especially not his family. Derek loves them dearly, but they tend to butt into his business a little too much for his comfort level. And should they find out that Derek’s interested in this young chef, they woul-  
  


Derek smacks the box shut before he grabs Stiles’ by the wrist with his clean hand, thank you very much. “C’mon. Lemme show you something. You’ll get a real kick out of it.”  
  


He can’t explain where this playful feeling is coming from, but it makes Derek pull Stiles towards the kitchen. They don’t pass through the main restaurant area. Derek takes them around back, hushing Stiles gently as they approach the door that leads to the kitchen.  
  


Stiles gives him a questioning look that Derek answers by tapping a finger against his lips before opening the door just a crack. He gestures for Stiles to come closer, right under his arm that is keeping the door ajar. Stiles comes closer, hovering in front of him as he peeks in.  
  


Jean Paul is delivering his daily sermon to his ‘subjects’. It’s a sight that Derek’s been seeing for the past week and it hasn’t gotten any less weird over time. “What the hell is he _doing_?” Stiles asks, voice trembling with restrained amusement and confusion. “What’s with the truffle?”  
  


“He’s obsessed with truffles,” Derek replies lowly, enjoying the warmth pouring out of Stiles and into his chest. “He keeps saying that he needs to find the perfect truffles for the opening dinner and every day he gives this long lecture on one ingredient. Yesterday it was cherry tomatoes.”  
  


The way Stiles shakes with repressed amusement makes Derek want to laugh as well. He can feel it bubble up inside his chest like a freshly uncorked bottle of champagne. “That is _insane_!” Stiles chortles, putting one hand on Derek’s chest.  
  


Feeling very much like an unmoored ship, Derek stares at the bony hand pressing against his shirt. There is nothing but a feel good warmth that Derek tends to associate with going home, sitting in the same room with his entire family, holding onto a cup of his dad’s homemade apple cider and listening to everyone shouting suggestions as they play Pictionary. It’s relaxed. Peaceful. A homecoming.  
  


He’s never felt so comfortable with _anyone,_ not since after Paige. And that was back in _high school_. Derek stares at Stiles, growing warm under his collar as Stiles leans so easily into him and murmurs, “Crazy chef aside, the kitchen looks pretty rad! I’d _kill_ to have half of the stuff you’ve got here.”  
  


Derek’s got the biggest urge to say something incredibly stupid like ‘Say the word and I’ll get it for you.’ It’s high up there on his list of things he wants to do right this instant, fighting against the urge to lean in and kiss Stiles’ lips, to find out if they’re as soft as they look. His eyes grow hooded as he stares at Stiles’ lips, watching the amused curve of them.  
  


He starts to lean in, mouth open to call Stiles’ attention to himself when Stiles looks up at him. And pauses. Derek freezes in return, realizing several things in a quick flash: they’re crouched behind a door peeking into the kitchen, in the middle of a busy hallway where anyone can find them. And his arm has gone from curling around Stiles’ shoulder to around the man’s waist. It feels nice there but how had it...  
  


His eyes search Stiles’, looking for any sign that will tell Derek to move away. But all he sees is a blinding grin and twinkling eyes that make Derek swallow and open his mouth to say --  
  


“I thought we were going to start hiring the floor staff _next_ week.”  
  


Peter’s dry statement makes the pair start and pull away, Stiles jumping far enough that his elbow smacks into Derek’s chest. Derek grunts in pain, arm keeping Stiles steady as much as using the other man to keep himself in place before he glares at his uncle. The older man is smirking amusedly at the pair while the small group behind him appear to be confused.  
  


“Peter,” Derek greets, not so discreetly stepping forward while pulling Stiles a step behind himself. “What are you doing here?”  
  


The amusement on Peter’s face is immediately replaced with a light frown. “The Williams group meeting.” It takes everything in him to keep his reaction limited to a quick little nod instead of a flat out cringe. He can’t _believe_ he forgot about that meeting!  
  


Derek nods at his uncle and points in the direction of the main hall. “If you’ll go inside, Isaac will be more than happy to show you around. I just have to...” He points at Stiles and prays that his uncle will listen to him for once.  
  


Peter glances at Stiles, his eyes sweeping over the man’s figure before he nods and leads the small group away. As soon as their backs are turned towards them, Derek sags in relief. Similarly, Stiles lets out a loud exhale and says, “ _That_ was the bad kind of surprise!”  
  


Nodding, Derek looks down at his hand and realizes that he’s still holding onto the pastry box that Stiles had brought for him. “Thank you for these.” He closes the flap gently, looking forward to finishing the rest of the treat after dinner.  
  


“You like them then?” Stiles asks, an eager gleam in his eyes.  
  


It makes Derek smile harder as he gestures to the front doors. “Yeah, I do.” It’s just three words but they make Stiles pump his fists in the air with delight and Derek huff amusedly. As they begin to walk together, Derek begins in a softer voice, “Thank you. For bringing my wallet back. And again for these.” He holds the box up.  
  


Stiles bounces slightly on his feet. “You’re welcome. I thought you might like a little pick me up after yesterday, and nothing’s better than a good dessert to do that. Unless it’s chocolate ‘cause chocolate trumps everything, especially a good Death by Chocolate cake.” The man suddenly throws an utterly stricken expression at Derek. “Unless you don’t like chocolate?”  
  


Ducking his head to hide his quiet laugh, Derek shakes his head and grins at Stiles. “I like it just fine.” He’s got his hand on the door handle, thumb rubbing against the design carved into the metal, watching Stiles fumble over his words.  
  


It’s incredibly endearing to watch him being so earnest but clumsy. It is also refreshing.  
  


“That’s great ‘cause I make a really mean chocolate cake. If there’s one thing that I’m ready to swear on it’s my chocolate cake. Or, well, technically it’s my mom’s cake ‘cause it’s her recipe and I follow it...”  
  


Stiles presses his lips together, brown eyes shyly looking down at the floor. Derek sucks in a shaky breath, heart skipping a beat when the light catches Stiles’ eyes just right, making them look like they’re threaded with gold again. And he thinks to himself, ‘ _Oh. I think I like him. Maybe a lot_ ’.  
  


The feeling hits him in the chest like a physical sensation when Stiles hesitantly says, “You could... maybe come over sometime and try it out? I mean, if you’re a fan of chocolate cake then you should see if it’s any good or not, right?”  
  


There’s really no other response to give except, “Sounds like a plan. I’ll swing by soon.” Derek pulls the door open and realizes that the bright sunlight doesn’t have _anything_ over the brilliance of Stiles’ smile.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


The next few days pass by in a blur for Stiles because of two reasons: a successful meeting with Derek and the sharp rise in customers.  
  


Stiles isn’t sure what has prompted the second, but he’s not questioning it. He enjoys the early morning produce shopping, lugging the items back as he and Scott debate the finer points of the daily menu. He loves putting on his chef jacket, well aware that by the end of the day, it’s going to be soaked with his sweat and splattered with several kinds of sauces.  
  


Although, he _can_ do without finding that one silly crab hiding away in strange places. Queen Shelly, as they all had christened the red crustacean (because of the way it waves at everyone and Shelly because _duh_. Scott and Stiles were appalled they had to explain _that_ joke), has a peculiar habit of crawling under a pile of vegetables and chilling there until he or Scott will reach over to pick something up and get a quick nip to their fingers.  
  


Besides the weird crab that they’ve declared their kitchen mascot (Scott’s even made a small chef’s hat for Queen), Stiles is having the time of his life in all matters related to the restaurant. He hopes that his mother is proudly watching him as he whips up one incredible meal after another.  
  


Between the good word of mouth and repeat customers, they’ve managed to turn the restaurant around. Stiles is cautiously optimistic that they can finally earn a profit for the first time in months, while Scott is out and out cheering their good luck. Erica good naturedly complains about the booming business, demanding that they hire another person to help her handle the floor (they hire Greenberg in the end). Danny beams happily every time he sees the filled seats, Jackson acts like he doesn’t care and Lydia sways between pleased at the success and displeased at having to wait for a table.  
  


Life is good. Life is _great_.  
  


Until he realizes that it’s been over three days and Derek hasn’t come by the restaurant. Or called! The number for the restaurant was right there on the box! They’ve got a Facebook page with the contact information on top! So, why hasn’t Derek contacted him yet?  
  


Once this fact has wormed its way to the top of his mind, Stiles can’t stop thinking about it.  
  


“Stiles!” Scott says, clearly exasperated, “If you don’t stop talking about him, I _swear_ I’m going to cut my ears off and mail them to him!”  
  


Okay, maybe he’s been thinking and talking too much about Derek. But he can’t help it!  
  


“I can’t help it!” Stiles argues back, taking most of his anxiety out by mashing the potatoes as hard as he can. “He said he’d swing by, but he hasn’t! It’s been over three days and I’m just... I don’t know if I should call him or not to see if everything’s alright. I mean, when someone says that they’ll swing by, does it come with some kind of cut off limit? There’s that one day waiting period, but that’s not a rule is it? Or do different people have different...”  
  


He trails off when he sees how manyorder slips Scott is going through. “Those aren’t...” Stiles isn’t sure whether to feel elated or flat out panicked at the tiny stack of papers Scott is frowning at. “We can’t make all of those at once!” Stiles exclaims, not even waiting for his friend’s reply.  
  


“Yeah, that’s not exactly how cooking works,” Scott teases him, quickly sticking the intimidating number of papers in the order holder. “Take a deep breath, dude. We’ve done this before.”  
  


Glaring at Scott for being so annoyingly calm and logical, Stiles mutters under his breath and works furiously to make the best damned mashed potatoes he can. As soon as he’s done, he’s shifting between the stove and the plating area, going back to talking on his current favorite topic - Derek and his “I’ll swing by soon” line.  
  


Stiles waves Erica off, hoping desperately that she won’t drop the orders as she totters away with loaded arms. “It’s got to be a brush off, right?” he asks, jumping out of Scott’s way as he pulls a hot pan out of the oven. “If he hasn’t come by then that means that he’s either not interested or he’s found someone else. Or both.” He really hopes that’s not the case. But if it is, Stiles is going to feel really dumb for thinking that there might have been something between them.  
  


‘ _And here I thought we had a moment together in that restaurant of his,’_ Stiles thinks morosely, spooning out some of the thick tomato soup into a pristine white bowl. He’s certain that he hadn’t imagined that moment. There’s no _way_ that he had.  
  


For what is probably the 100th time in three days, Stiles mutters dark curses at the older man who had interrupted their moment.  
  


“You know there’s an easy solution to this right?” Scott inquires as he helps Greenberg load his tray with the next set of orders.  
  


“There is?” Stiles asks, looking up from where he’s garnishing a plate.  
  


Instead of Scott, Greenberg replies, “ _You_ can call **him**. You’ve got his number right?”  
  


Stiles is ready to point his spoon at the man and tell him not to poke his nose into a private conversation, when Scott nods and says, “Exactly.”  
  


So instead, Stiles stares at them both before he hesitantly asks, “ _Should_ I, though? I mean, wouldn’t that make me look desperate? Or say that I’m coming on too strong?”  
  


Greenberg looks questioningly at Scott, who holds the door open for him and waves him away in a ‘You go. I’ve got it from here’ manner. Without another word, Scott lets the door sway closed as he steps toward where they keep their cell phones.  
  


If his hands weren’t busy dealing with four pots and one oven at the same time, Stiles would rush over to Scott. So he has to swallow down his unease and make do with asking, “What the hell are you doing?”  
  


“Doing what you should have done two days ago,” Scott replies grimly, fingers scrolling through Stiles’ contact list.  
  


Oh no.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


“I think Peter’s finally gone round the bend,” Laura tells him as soon as the door is closed. Derek frowns up at his older sister, wordlessly asking her for an explanation as she walks up to where he’s sitting. Even though he firmly believes Peter went round the bend ages ago, he’s interested in what Laura has to share.  
  


Laura plops down into her preferred seat with a loud huff, kicking her heels off before she tucks her feet under her. The leather is soft enough that it doesn’t creak, even when she wriggles back into the single seat sofa. “He came into my office 30 minutes ago and started telling me about this weird dream he had last night about the restaurant opening. Something about seeing mom’s reflection in his shoe and she was laughing at him. Telling him how he was going to fail because he couldn’t even tell the difference between a cherry tomato and a regular tomato.”  
  


Sounds like he’s not the only one feeling the pressure. Derek flips open the folders he’s been going over for the better part of a day, handing another one over to Laura. Times like these he wonders why he agreed to work with Peter rather than work at the family farm like his brothers. “He’s just stressed. He’ll be back to normal once the restaurant is up and running Then he’ll annoy you about your clients and me about the restaurant.” Derek pauses, looks up and gives his sister a painful smile before correcting himself. “Or whatever passes for normal with him anyways.”  
  


Laura groans and picks up the binder she’s brought with her. “Remind me again why we’re working with him?” she grumbles, shoving her jacket off.  
  


Without missing a beat, or looking up from the line of numbers before him, Derek replies, “Because we wanted to live  in New York no matter what, even if that meant having to work with Peter.” It’s close to what Laura used to say in the early days, complete with glittering eyes at the prospect of getting to live and work in the glamorous city. Laura still has that gleam in her eyes, but it’s grown dim over the years as work pressures have grown.  
  


As his sister sighs, Derek assumes that they’ll get back to work. There’s a lot of ground to cover and quite frankly, he’s thinking he’ll have to stay overtime every night until the big opening. _Maybe_ then everything _might_ go off without a hitch. He honestly hates all the uncertainty in his life right now.  
  


“By the way,” Laura begins in a coy tone. That’s not a good sign. That’s Laura’s ‘I know something juicy’ tone, the one which inevitably leads to an hour of gossip and zero work being done. “There’s a rumor floating around the office about you. I’m trying to kill it of course. You’re welcome, by the way.”  
  


Scowling at his sister, Derek pointedly raises the folder up in front of his face and replies, “Thank you. Can we get started here?”  
  


Laura ignores him as smooth as you please, going so far as to sit on the edge of her seat like she’s 16 instead of 33. “I bet you wanna know what it is, right? I’ll tell you! It’s about you and this guy, _in flagrante_ at the restaurant.”  
  


Torn between the urge to join in his sister’s amusement or just _pass out_ in sheer humiliation, Derek chokes out, “ _In flagrante_? There was... We didn’t... Those are lies! There was no _in flagrante_ going on!”  
  


“That’s not what I heard,” Laura sing-songs gleefully. “I heard that you guys were kissing.”  
  


That makes him point a pen at his sister’s smug grin. “I came _close_ to kissing him. I didn’t _actually_ kiss him!”  
  


“I think I like the rumor version better.” She brings her binder up to protect herself as Derek chucks the pen at her, laughing the whole time. Giving Laura a baleful look, Derek leans over the sofa arm to scrounge another pen out of the desk drawer. “It’s good though. That you’re moving on. Although I gotta say, I never pegged you as the type to invite your date over to your workplace.”  
  


That makes Derek pause, hand still inside the small drawer. He frowns heavily at his sister, the truth of her words making him feel uneasy. “It wasn’t a date. He dropped by to return my wallet and I showed him around the kitchen. I thought that because he’s a chef he might get a kick out of it.”  
  


“Wait.” Laura sits up, a sharp look in her eyes. “You’re telling me that you almost kissed the guy who found your wallet in his restaurant? The same restaurant you had the amazing crab? _That_ guy?” Derek winces at the glare he’s receiving. So much for keeping the truth from her. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me this before?” He gets a sheaf of papers smacked against his arm repeatedly as Laura continues, “You just told me that the chef from the restaurant came to give your wallet back! You didn’t tell me that it was at our restaurant _or_ that you tried to kiss him! What the hell, Der?”  
  


Shifting out of Laura’s reach, Derek shrugs helplessly because, honestly? He doesn’t know how to explain it or what had come over him that day. The day after his almost kiss with Stiles, Derek had been hit with the biggest sense of ‘what the hell was I thinking.’ He stares at the empty pastry box and the number printed on it, wondering what had possessed him to act that way towards a man he barely even knew.  
  


“I don’t know what to tell you,” he says, running an agitated hand through his hair. It makes his hair look more messy than normal - less stylishly coiffed and more on the side of crazy. “I hadn’t been feeling like myself that day. I was hung-over and he showed up with his smile and pastries and just... he made me feel better.”  
  


With a puzzled smile towards Laura, Derek continues, “He made me feel like I was someone else. Someone... _romantic_.”  
  


“That’s a definite improvement,” Laura quips with a tight grin. “If you want my advice, keep this one.”  
  


Derek stares down at the papers in his lap, frowning sightlessly at them as he mumbles, “I _really_ didn’t feel like myself back then.”  
  


Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that he hadn’t felt like a present version of himself? Derek had felt more like his old self, when he was younger and had more reasons to laugh. Before the string of bad relationships which never went anywhere and left him feeling increasingly bitter and frustrated over what he’d been doing wrong.  
  


Sighing, Derek slouches in his seat and glares at the page before aggressively flipping to the next one. He’s grateful for the silence that follows, hoping that this means that they’re going to get down to work now.  
  


His fingers pull the calculator towards him, wanting to tally the numbers up when Laura distractedly asks, “What was his name by the way?”  
  


Derek opens his mouth at the same time his phone beeps and his secretary says, right along with him, “Stiles.” “Stiles Stilinski on line one for you Mr.Hale.”  
  


The siblings stare down at the phone for several long, quiet seconds before Laura whispers, “That’s seriously freaky.”  
  


Derek’s inclined to agree. The flashing light mocks him and his indecision. He ought to pick up the phone and talk to Stiles. Of all the unexpected things, Derek didn’t think that the man had his number in the first place. Then again, if he knew his place of work then it would be easy enough to track down a phone number.  
  


A pen dings off his head. Derek jumps and covers his forehead, glaring at his sister as he snaps, “What the hell, Laura?!”  
  


She however, is flapping her hands at the phone. “Pick up the damn call, you idiot!”  
  


Still glaring at his sister, Derek picks the receiver up. “Hello?” he says far more cautiously than he intends. Dammit.  
  


_“Hey, Derek! It’s me, Stiles. Stilinski. I was just calling to ask you if you’d... eat? Um! Invite you to eat dinner at the restaurant tonight. I’m making that chocolate cake that I told you about, with homemade vanilla ice cream on the side.”_  
  


He stares at Laura, feeling a tiny bit bug eyed at the sudden invitation. Laura is staring intently at him, curiosity ablaze in her eyes as she mouths, ‘What does he want?’ Derek repeats the question for both their sakes, hoping that the slight delay will help him figure out his reply. “Dinner tonight? Let me check my schedule.”  
  


Laura jumps off the sofa, grabbing Derek’s iPad off the table and quickly pulling his schedule up. As Derek counts up to 15 in his head, Laura flips down the day’s appointment and gleefully shows him the empty slots available after 5 p.m.. The way that she’s nodding at him, with the eager look in her eyes, Derek knows what she wants him to do.  
  


Trouble is, he’s not sure if it’s what _he_ wants to do. The limited encounters that he’s had with Stiles have left him feeling unbalanced and off center. It’s an unfamiliar feeling that Derek doesn’t enjoy, much less wants a repeat of. He’s not comfortable knowing that being around Stiles brings out a whole new side of him that Derek didn’t even know _existed_ in the first place.  
  


So he decides to play it cool. Maybe if they take it slow, Derek can figure out what he wants. And if Stiles is worth it. “I’ve got a dinner meeting at 8.” He makes sure to lace his tone with a small measure of regret, which isn’t difficult at all as Derek remembers Stiles’ amazing food.  
  


Laura glances down at the tablet before hissing, “No you don’t!”  
  


He gives her a warning glare, listening to Stiles’ say, “ _Oh. Okay. Well... I’ll be here late. So, if you want you could stop by here afterward once you’re done with your meeting?”_  
  


Ignoring Laura’s displeased frown, Derek agrees. “If it’s not too late, yeah.”  
  


_“Okay. Maybe I’ll see you later then. Tonight. Maybe... Bye.”_  
  


“Yeah. Bye.” Derek echoes, frowning slightly as he overhears Stiles sarcastically thanking someone named Scott before the call drops.  
  


He stares at the phone, aware of Laura’s gaze on him. Derek can _feel_ the weight of her stare on him, like it’s a physical thing being directed his way. “I don’t even knowwhat you’re doing, but I’m already telling you that this might turn into a hot mess,” she drawls, fingers tapping over the iPad screen before she tosses it into his lap.  
  


His sister has penciled in his tentative dinner plans into his official schedule. The sight of it keeps flashing behind his eyelids throughout the rest of the day. His mood sways between nervous and hopeful. Equal parts excited about seeing Stiles, and never wanting to see him again.  
  


The day passes too fast and too slow for his liking, with several people inquiring if everything was alright. One hard glare made them run away without waiting for an answer. Unfortunately, his glare has little effect on Cora.  
  


Anytime he has been in earshot, Cora has loudly asked Boyd and Isaac if someone had spiked Derek’s drink and if they can continue to do so until launch day. None of the looks Derek had shot at her made her stop her teasing, much to Derek’s dismay. In fact, his glaring only made her grin harder.  
  


His indecision plagues him for the rest of his day, haunting him like a bad smell no amount of deodorant can spritz away. Derek can feel the weight of it on his chest, growing heavier and heavier as 8 p.m. creeps closer. As the clock strikes eight, Derek is knee deep in an unexpected conversation with the company lawyers about the paperwork involved with the restaurant opening. His eyes kept ticking back and forth between the contracts before him and the wall clock in front of him, unsure if he wants the man to drag the conversation on or wrap it up quickly.  
  


After another 20 minutes, Derek hangs the phone up and wonders what to do about his rumbling stomach. The meatball sub he had grabbed around 5 is well on it’s way to being digested and he craves something substantial for dinner. He longingly thinks of Stiles and the wonderful food that is surely waiting for him at The Beacon.  
  


Should he go? It’s not like he’s promised to be there. It was a maybe -- a possibility and nothing more. Derek’s not obligated to go down to the restaurant and spend time with a person who, for the first time in a long while, makes him feel...  
  


Makes him feel...  
  


Derek stares at his monitor, puzzled that he can’t find the right words to describe how Stiles makes him feel. _‘More than myself?’_ He sifts through the contracts, arranging them into two piles - one for Laura and one for Peter - as he struggles with his feelings.  
  


He gets temporary relief from his dilemma when Peter emails him a new set of documents near 9 p.m., with the message “These need to be reviewed and summarized before tomorrow evening’s meeting.”  
  


With a grateful exhale, Derek makes a trip down to the vending machine for a few granola bars before he gets to work. He works steadily, going through the documents while taking notes by hand. Unfortunately, his focus keeps oscillating between the document and the time display in the corner. Derek’s brain shifts between terms and conditions and wondering how busy Stiles must be at the restaurant and if the chef is still waiting for him to show up.  
  


_‘He’s probably given up,’_ Derek sternly tells himself, tapping his pen against the notepad, going back to the start of the paragraph. _‘Or he could still be waiting...’_ With an irritated sigh, Derek drops the pen . He scrubs his palms over his face, fingernails scratching at his scruff.  
  


Apparently that’s enough for his brain to turn its complete attention towards Stiles. Derek stares at the clock, feeling exasperated with himself. He’s had all day and he hasn’t been able to decide what he ought to do.  
  


_‘It’s 20 minutes to midnight. The restaurant is probably closed by now.’_ Derek tells himself, swivelling back and forth in his chair. _‘If you left right now, there’s a tiny chance that you could catch Stiles right before he closes up and leaves for home...’_ Derek rubs his hands against his thighs, feeling the day’s agitation grow and grow as he repeats the question to himself - should he or shouldn’t he go to The Beacon? Yes or no?  
  


“Dammit,” Derek mutters, impatiently waving his mouse to get the monitor out of standby mode. He eyes the last few pages left and looks back at the wall clock with a curse.  
  


Now that he’s made up his mind, Derek doesn’t allow himself to think about it. He forces himself to read and make notes as fast as he can. The whole time he hopes that his secretary will manage to make sense of his messy writing when she’ll be typing them up.  
  


The clock ticks to seven past midnight as Derek rushes out of the office wearing a fresh shirt and blazer. He drops his notes on the secretary’s desk, along with the contracts that need to go to Peter and Laura. Hailing a cab takes another ten minutes of precious time. As he slips into the vehicle and tells the cabbie where to go, Derek hopes that he’s not too late.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


“You sure you don’t want to go celebrate?” Erica asks, tucking away the money Stiles has just given her into her purse.  
  


Stiles looks at Scott, who pulls a tired face before shaking his head. “Pretty sure,” he answers, taking a sip of his beer. “This beer plus a good night’s sleep is enough celebration for me.” And after the long day they’ve had, it really will be. Stiles is certain that Scott is looking forward to going home and spending some time with Allison before going to sleep as well.  
  


Erica clicks her tongue in clear disapproval. “Come on! We did a _hundred_ dinners tonight! We _need_ to celebrate this _properly_! We can call Lydia and Danny right now, head down to the P3 and just cut loose!”  
  


They could and man, it sounds horribly tempting but...  
  


Scott puts away the now clean blackboard, ready to display tomorrow’s daily menu, before throwing the cleaning cloth at the far away bar. The cloth doesn’t make it more than a few feet away from them. With a wry smile, Scott pushes himself out of his seat. “Sorry. I’m beat. I just want to get home and sleep.” He walks over to the dropped rag and deposits it on top of the bar.  
  


The blonde sighs, long and heavy, before standing up as well. “Suit yourselves. I guess it’ll just be me and Boyd then.”  
  


“We still haven’t met him you know,” Stiles teases, rolling his bottle around in his hands. “I still don’t believe you actually have a boyfriend.” He ducks as Erica playfully snaps her scarf at him, chuckling lightly at her playful growl. “Have fun for us too.”  
  


“Will do.” Her heels click against the wooden floor, not pausing in their brisk pace when Scott passes by and she slaps his arm. “Night.”  
  


Stiles salutes her with his bottle while Scott replies, “G’night,” before leaning on his discarded seat.  
  


“So,” Scott begins. “Can you believe we did a hundred dinners tonight?”  
  


He can’t help but grin proudly at Scott. Stiles cannot _believe_ they pulled this off. It’s been an _insane_ night, filled with happy customers and good food. “I can’t actually. It feels like a dream.” he answers, holding his beer out toward Scott, who picks up his almost empty bottle to knock against Stiles’. The happy sounding clink resonates with Stiles, makes his beer taste better than the last sip. And from the satisfied sounding sigh Scott lets out, he thinks the same thing just happened to his best friend.  
  


Scott taps his fingers against the green glass, grin broadening as he speaks, “I really don’t know what got into you, but the food tastes _great_. Fear’s one hell of a motivator huh?”  
  


Fear? Stiles pauses mid-swig, grimacing slightly as he forces himself to swallow. “I’m not so sure it was fear, you know?” His voice comes out a little hoarse before tapering down to its usual quality.  
  


His friend hums contemplatively before polishing off the last of his beer, burping quietly as the glass bottle hits the table. “Well,” Scott begins, pushing himself up straight, “whatever it was, it worked out to our favor. Another few nights like this, and the restaurant’s safe.”  
  


That particular nugget is a comforting thought Stiles is keeping close to his heart, letting it warm him from the inside out. Pride and relief mingle together as he realizes he’s managed to save the restaurant. He can’t _wait_ to call his dad and tell him how things have taken a positive turn. Maybe tomorrow morning -- once they’re done with lunch prep.  
  


Stiles surreptitiously checks the wall clock behind the bar, feeling a twinge of disappointment when he sees it’s well past one in the morning. It’s too late for Derek to show up now. When his gaze slides back, it meets Scott’s gentle eyes on the way down.  
  


“I don’t think he’s coming.” Scott says quietly.  
  


It’s only his pride which enables Stiles to hold Scott’s eyes and smile softly when he answers, “I’m not waiting.” It hurts, _a lot_ when Scott’s eyes grow softer in sympathy. Ducking his head, Stiles stares at the lights bouncing off his bottle instead of his best friend when he sighs.  
  


Stiles keeps his eyes down as Scott gives his shoulder a quick squeeze before heading out. “There’s a lot of magic in the air,” he hears Scott tell him over the jangling of his keys. “Don’t lose hope, okay? Whoa.” Leaning forward, Stiles wonders what’s got Scott’s attention. “Can I help you?”  
  


He groans at the thought of a late customer, getting off his feet to give Scott a hand when he hears a familiar voice tentatively asking, “Am I too late?”  
  


It can’t be. It’s not. But nope. It’s Derek, standing in front of Scott looking attractive as hell despite the late, late hour. His hair is the messiest part of him and Stiles _desperately_ wants to run his fingers through the dark strands and mess them up even more.  
  


The second Derek catches sight of him over Scott’s shoulder, his entire stance relaxes. He smiles in relief at the younger man as he breathes out, “Stiles. Sorry I’m so late. The dinner meeting ran over.”  
  


He can sense Scott’s disapproval before he even opens his mouth, lightly nudging his friend to the side so that Derek’s got a clear path inside. “It’s cool. We were just closing up. We had this bunch of college students who just wouldn’t leave. Had to throw them out at midnight so... yeah, we were pretty busy tonight.” And there’s that feeling of being on the receiving end of Scott’s ‘what the hell are you doing?’ gaze. “Right, Scott?”  
  


Stiles gives Scott his most beseeching look, wordlessly pleading with the man to play along. He silently thanks God for having a best friend like Scott when the man answers, “Yeah. They were a rowdy bunch. Anyways. See you tomorrow, Stiles.” There’s no way to miss the look Scott gives him as he brushes past Derek on his way out, one that tells him to be careful and not to do anything Scott wouldn’t.  
  


Stiles waves briskly at Scott before closing the door and turning to Derek with a controlled smile. He doesn’t want to come across as too eager, or worse, _desperate._ Derek, however, doesn’t seem to have the same concerns when he asks, eyes darting over towards the kitchen once before locking with Stiles, “Is the dessert offer still open?”  
  


There’s a _huge_ desire to just jump Derek and kiss him when he looks at Stiles, lips turned up in a shy, hopeful smile. Stiles melts under the look, smiling back as he walks towards the kitchen. “Of course. Lucky for you, we’ve got two slices of chocolate cake left.”  
  


“Must be my lucky day.” Derek’s low voice sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine, almost making him trip over his own feet. He gestures for Derek to pull a stool up to the prep table while he pulls the remaining cake out of the fridge.  
  


Erica had threatened bodily harm to everyone, declaring the last of the cake to be hers and her’s alone. As he digs out the last of the ice cream, Stiles hopes she’ll understand that the cake went to a good cause. _‘And I’ll promise to make a whole cake just for her.’_  
  


Internally praising himself for his good idea, Stiles begins to pull the necessary cutlery out. _‘Oh! Where’s the chocolate sauce?’_ He opens the fridge again to check, but there’s no chocolate sauce to be found. _‘Better make some fresh._ ’ Which is better, because warm chocolate sauce drizzled over the cold ice cream is going to taste _amazing_.  
  


He glances up from where he’s pulling out bowls, feeling his stomach clench at the sight of Derek’s rolled up sleeves resting on the table top. It’s his kryptonite - hot guys rolling up their sleeves to show off their forearms. Add in sharp jawline, startling eyes, stubble and Stiles is K.O-ed, okay?  
  


Stiles presses his chapped lips together, all too aware of how dry his mouth is as he licks them. “So what was your meeting about?”  
  


It’s a safe a topic as any to start small talk with. He focuses his attention on the cake slices, transferring them off the cake stand and onto the two plates before him. And if he takes extra care making sure they are placed _perfectly_ there’s no one around to point it out. “I lied actually,” Derek’s words make him pause, a bowl in one hand and serving knife in the other. The business man looks contrite as hell, expressions quickly turning (oddly) into confusion when he continues. “There wasn’t any meeting in the first place. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but... I’m sorry. For lying.”  
  


Stiles feels ... he doesn’t know how he feels. He turns the stove on and pours the ingredients for the chocolate sauce into the sauce pan. On one hand, Derek lied to him. But on the other hand, he’s here right now, apologizing for a very strange lie. Why would Derek make the meeting up in the first place? _‘Maybe he didn’t want to come down here?’_ Stiles rolls this around in his head, much like the mixture he’s stirring on top of the open stove.  
  


The heady smell of cocoa is beginning to fill the air, making Stiles’ mouth water as he imagines the taste of it. He pulls the spoon out of the thickening mix of cocoa, butter, salt and sugar. Most of the water has reduced into a thick sauce now. Stiles uses a finger to test the sweetness of the sauce before thinking back to Derek’s confession. He can’t help but hope that Derek will like the cake. Isn’t chocolate supposed to be an aphrodisiac? Stiles fervently hopes so as he continues to stir the thickening liquid around, wanting _so much_ to appeal to Derek’s romantic side. If he has one. Or Stiles assumes he has one. Who doesn’t have a romantic side right?  
  


He’s letting himself get distracted.  
  


Stiles brings himself back to the previous issue. If Derek had lied because he didn’t want to come and had come down anyways, that implies a change of heart, right? One that’s in Stiles’ favor.  
  


Besides, it’s not like Derek’s the only one who’s lied tonight so Stiles really can’t blame the man.  
  


Smiling warmly at the man, Stiles says, “It’s okay. I understand.” His smile goes sheepish almost immediately. “My last table left right before 11, actually. So I’m sorry too.” The light, easy laugh his confession coaxes out of Derek makes Stiles feel as light as a feather.  
  


He’s not entirely sure whether his feet are still on the floor actually when Derek glances up at him, eyes fairly sparkling. “Now I really feel bad for making you wait.”  
  


Stiles bites his lips to keep the foolish grin at bay, continuing to stir the chocolate sauce until it reaches the proper consistency. “Who says I was waiting for you? Maybe I’m always here this late, cleaning up and stuff.”  
  


The playful challenge in his tone makes Derek’s grin broaden with delight. “Are you usually here this late? What time do you get home then?”  
  


Pulling the saucepan off the heat, Stiles turns the stove off before moving over to scoop the ice cream. This means keeping his eyes on the plates rather than on Derek’s bewitching gaze. Stiles rolls two perfect scoops next to each cake slice, belatedly realizing he shouldn’t have put them on either side of the cake. It looks too much like a penis euphemism on a plate. And he can’t even nudge them around without Derek possibly catching on so Stiles lets it be. Maybe with some chocolate drizzle they won’t remind Derek of balls.  
  


He grabs the saucepan and a spoon, checking the sauces’ consistency one more time before scooping some of it up. With great care, he drizzles the sweet chocolate sauce over the ice cream and cake before wiping the back of the spoon against the saucepan. Stiles takes the opportunity to answer Derek’s question. “This _is_ home.”  
  


When he looks up and catches sight of the other man’s confused expression, Stiles quickly gestures at the open door in the corner of the room. “That leads upstairs to my apartment.” He freezes for a second, wondering if maybe he’s sending the wrong message by saying that, so Stiles hurriedly adds on, “So getting home is just locking up, turning the lights off and going upstairs. Takes around 5 minutes.”  
  


For a quick change of topic, Stiles slides the ready plate toward Derek before dealing with the second one. He tries to be careful when drizzling the thick warm sauce over the ice cream, but somehow, he winds up getting some on his fingers. Stiles sucks the pad of his thumb into his mouth, humming with delight at the chocolate flavor there. So what if his plate looks a little messy? It’s the taste that matters and he knows for a fact that the cake tastes delicious. Same for the ice cream and the chocolate sauce, so it’s all good.  
  


His lips make a tiny smacking noise when he’s done cleaning his thumb and index finger. Stiles opens his eyes to find Derek’s attention locked on him. He’s got his fork in hand, less than an inch away from cutting into the cake, but he doesn’t do anything. Derek’s staring at him, almost stricken before his pale eyes darken.  
  


A heady sensation sweeps through him when Derek puts his fork down on the table, eyes gleaming with barely disguised lust, making Stiles actually feel dizzy. When Derek stands up, Stiles has to reach down to grab the counter before his knees give out.  
  


He stares at Derek, watches him stalk around the table until they’re standing toe to toe. Stiles feels like he’s stranded in the middle of a thick fog (which smells suspiciously like chocolate), unable to see anything except what is right before him. And that happens to be Derek. Oh hell. Stiles feels his knees wobble dangerously when Derek’s rough hands take hold of his and bring his sticky fingers up, up.  
  


Stiles shudders, choking on an embarrassingly high aroused noise when Derek’s hot mouth closes around his thumb and sucks. He can’t help but lean into the older man, wanting that mouth to be on his neck, lips, chest, everywhere. Before Stiles can even begin to process the feeling of Derek’s mouth sucking his thumb clean of chocolate sauce, the man is licking the webbing between Stiles’ thumb and index finger, groaning quietly, “Tastes so good.”  
  


_‘Does he mean me or the chocolate?’_ Stiles thinks dumbly, unable to do anything but feel dangerously close to passing out because all the blood in his body has gone south, leaving him dizzy with barely controllable desire. The breath he sucks in is loud and shaky, capturing Derek’s attention in an instant.  
  


It’s a struggle to stand still when his nerves, his every muscle, feel like they’re buzzing with energy. Stiles wants to run a mile, swim across an ocean, jump over the moon when Derek’s hands shyly cup his neck, thumbs sweeping sweet arcs under his jaw, murmuring, “How can you taste so good?”  
  


“Cuz I’m a chef?” Stiles croaks. Because he is smoothness incarnate. And articulate. So fucking articulate. If he wasn’t this close to just _dying_ because he’s so aroused, he’d be mortified. It takes everything he has in him to hang onto Derek, who is pressing hot, gentle kisses up his neck and jaw.  
  


It helps when Derek’s amused chuckle brushes over his lips, getting Stiles to let go of the damned counter and grab onto Derek instead. He’s praising himself for the excellent move because now he’s got his hands fisted against Derek’s chest, allowing him to feel the shallow rasps Derek is breathing in and out as he leans in for what is sure to be an _amazing_ first kiss.  
  


Spoilers: It is.  
  


More spoilers: Derek’s good at more than just kissing.  
  


Side note: He needs to clean the kitchen up before Scott arrives in the morning or else he’s going to throw a fit.  
  


Side note #2: Actually. Stiles isn’t even sure if he’ll be able to look at chocolate sauce and cake ever again without blushing red.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


Not to use a cliché, but Derek feels like he’s walking on sunshine and floating on cloud nine at the same time. It’s the first time in many years that the pleasant hazy feeling which settles into him after an afterglow extends to the next _day_. He also may or may not have developed a new love for chocolate sauce, much to his family’s confusion. Laura had eyed him weirdly when he’d insisted on dipping his Hot Fudge Sundae Pop Tart in chocolate sauce for breakfast. Derek was sad to note that the sauce didn’t compare with the sauce Stiles had made.  
  


But still. Chocolate sauce.  
  


The words are enough to send him into a fresh wave of happy, smug and content.  
  


As are any thoughts involving Stiles.  
  


Cora keeps muttering darkly at Isaac, “He’s finally cracked. The stress _finally_ got to him.”  
  


Derek can’t bring himself to care if he’s totally honest.  
  


Boyd eyes him like he’s waiting for Derek to do something extraordinary. Like maybe break into song and dance.  
  


As happy as he is, Derek isn’t a song and dance guy.  
  


Peter flat out asks him if he got laid and Derek ignores him. He also ignores the five paper planes he sends flying at Derek, one of which smacks into his head.  
  


Laura asks if he’s ill when he asks her where he can buy chocolate scented candles. “No _way_ you’re buying that stuff for the restaurant!” She scolds him. “Or your apartment! I’ll never visit you again!” That alone is excellent grounds to buy a whole crate full. Laura doesn’t appreciate his newly awakened sense of humor and sends him a whole stack of reports and contracts to go over. It’s totally worth it, however.  
  


He’s _happy_ in a way Derek hasn’t been since he was a teenager. It’s amazing. And it’s all thanks to Stiles. And nothing’s managed to penetrate through the wonderful haze that’s been surrounding him since getting up off Stiles’ kitchen floor, laughing and kissing their way upstairs to the bathroom to clean up the mess they’d made of themselves.  
  


Although there was the whole mess with Jean Paul. Derek slips his blazer on, buttoning it up as he frowns slightly at his reflection. He’s heard and read about temperamental people, but Jean Paul is taking the cake. Isaac had come up to him earlier today, saying that the man was refusing to work because apparently someone had stolen his knives. “So get him some new knives,” Derek had told Isaac.  
  


“About that. He doesn’t want new ones. He wants the ones that were lost. Or stolen. Depends on who you ask.”  
  


After begging Isaac to take care of it, Derek had run off to deal with whatever crisis was making Cora yell at her phone. And now he’s getting ready to meet with some of the initial investors who have repeatedly expressed their concern about the budget. Yes, Derek knows that the startup costs are higher than they had projected, and that Jean Paul’s acting more like a diva than a chef, declaring he will quit at the drop of a hat over all kinds of things. He gets it, he really does. Things aren’t going according to plan, but that doesn’t mean that they’re off the rails either.  
  


In the end, the startup costs and budgets are just an estimation, and they’ve only gone over by a little. And taking into account that they’ll be up and running within a few short _days_ , with break even to be achieved within the first 6 months, well, Derek hardly sees reason to worry as much as the investors are.  
  


By the end of their meeting, Derek gives the group a quick tour of the restaurant, which is coming along nicely. It actually looks like a restaurant now instead of a hot mess. All the lighting fixtures have been installed, the floor is ready, even the fancy circular chandeliers Cora had insisted on buying are good to go. “They’re classy!” His little sister had insisted. Derek begrudgingly admits she might have been right. Might have been.  
  


The investors seem to like it, and that’s what’s really important. Once they’ve seen how the restaurant looks and how smoothly everything is going, they look far more relaxed than they had at the start of the meeting. Derek feels more than a little proud as he leads them out. He’s answering some final questions when the scent hits him.  
  


It’s a familiar, sweet smell that immediately has his mouth watering. It smells like some of those delicious pastries Stiles had brought for him. Those delicious little finger éclairs. Derek finds himself trailing off halfway through his sentence, more preoccupied with trying to figure out where the smell is coming from.  
  


“The one time fees… like the delicious… design and mouth watering market… research. Added with the… appetizing ad campaign.” Dammit! He really wants those pastries now! Thank _God_ , they’re at the door. And there’s Isaac! Derek grabs the man, ignoring his surprised yelp. “Isaac. Could you show Mr. Crane out? I need to go find something. One. I need to go find someone.”  
  


With a polite nod at the group, Derek dashes away, following the scent. He assumes the smell will be coming from the kitchen, but as it turns out? The heavenly smell is coming from the employee break room where they’ve been camping out.  
  


There’s no one in the room to judge the way Derek takes several long sniffs in order to trace the smell. _‘Definitely somewhere in here…’_ Derek thinks, critical eyes taking in the room. The table is littered with papers. Cora’s make up bag is half spilled over the far counter. The coffee pot is empty. There’s a box of Krispy Kreme next to it. And next to that, is a smaller box with a familiar logo stamped on it.  
  


Derek all but pounces on the green and white box, checking inside to make sure he hasn’t been hallucinating. There’s a single, delicious looking pastry inside the box. _‘Who brought this?’_ Derek wonders, closing the box to check for a post-it note or scribbled note. On the top corner is Boyd’s name. Now he knows who to apologize to for stealing his food. Hopefully Boyd will forgive him. Hopefully.  
  


Derek looks around him. All he needs is a plate. Food this good needs to be eaten with a certain degree of class after all. But where in all this mess can he find a plate? Didn’t Isaac bring a stack of paper plates a few weeks back?  
  


While Derek busily digs through the cabinets and general mess they’ve made, he overlooks two very important facts: he’s left the door open behind him and Laura was supposed to come down to the restaurant at 2. It is ten past now.  
  


So while Derek looks around for a plate, he misses the sound of Laura approaching the room. He bumps his head into the table at the exact second she pushes the door open, its creaky groan hiding under his loud hissed cursing. But what Derek _doesn’t_ miss is the way Laura asks, “Are those doughnuts?”  
  


Derek scrambles to his feet, not wanting Laura to see the pastry box and steal the last treat. But in his haste, he winds up hitting the coffee table again. So while he holds his knee and curses the thrice damned table, Laura sees the box and makes a delighted noise. “Don’t even think about it!” Derek warns her, but it’s no good.  
  


She snags the last pastry with a delighted, “Gotta learn to share Derek!” and gleefully takes a bite and groans in delight. _Dammit_!  
  


“Wow.” Laura moans wantonly, dragging the vowel out, eyes closing as she savors the bite. She’s leaning back against the counter like the simple pleasure of eating something delicious has made her unable to stand upright. Derek staggers up to her, too late, and grabs the empty box, feeling the urge to pout growing the longer he looks at the greasy paper. “Oh my _God_! What _is_ this? _Jeeesus_! That’s fucking _delicious_!”  
  


“Laura!” He doesn’t whine, but he comes pretty close to it as Laura pops the second half of the dessert into her mouth with another moan.  
  


She walks away, staggering a little as she walks over to the nearest seat and just flops down in it, dreamily saying, “Oh my _God_ , that was _amazing_! No wait. _Incredible_. That’s what it was. Mmmm.”  
  


Derek runs his finger against the side of the box, catching the tiny drizzle of syrup at the tip of his finger before popping it into his mouth sadly. He wishes he could say it’s better than nothing, but considering what’s been stolen from under his nose, it’s the world’s worst tease. “I want more,” Laura offers from her seat, looking so totally out of it as she licks her fingers clean. She’s got a dazed look on her face and coupled with the pink flush… Nope, he’s not thinking about what his older sister looks like. Some things you just don’t want to think about when it comes to family.  
  


He grimaces down at the empty box, still holding it between his hands even as he walks up to where Laura is sitting and plopping down next to her. The couch sags underneath his weight, letting out a sound which Derek feels aptly describes his feelings. “No.”  
  


Laura lets out a sad noise, leaning over to rub her cheek into his shoulder while peering down into the empty box with a forlorn expression. “Shame. It was _amazing_. Like orgasm in a bite. Where’d you get it from anyways?”  
  


Where?  
  


Derek’s brain halts it’s sad musings to remember where exactly he’d found the box. And who it belongs to. Or belonged too. And he groans, dropping the box in favor of holding his head. “Boyd. It was Boyd’s. I can’t believe I just _stole_ someone’s food!”  
  


“Technically you didn’t steal his food.” Laura points out helpfully.  
  


Derek runs his fingers through his hair, tugs on the short strands in the hopes of shaking this weird feeling out. “I think I’m losing it Laura. I can’t stop thinking about him.” About the way Stiles’ pink mouth had fallen open during their first kiss, the way his body had pressed back into Derek’s, the thick fog which had rolled over them when he’d pushed Stiles’ down on the floor. Not to mention all the delightful noises Stiles had made when Derek had licked chocolate sauce off his nipples. And his clever eyes, bright with lust and playful delight when he’d tried to hand feed Derek a piece of the chocolate cake. And those fingers...  
  


He’s embarrassed like hell when he realizes his dick’s getting half hard at the memories. Thankfully, Laura doesn’t notice. Nope, she’s too blissed out on the sugar probably. Derek knows she’s been dieting for a couple of weeks now for the opening so empty stomach plus sugar tend to make her a bit... _loopy._ Like the way she’s acting now.  
  


But she’s looking at him questioningly, making a tiny ‘go on’ gesture with her fingers. “Is it crazy that I can’t stop thinking about him? I’ve barely met him what? Three times? Four? And just... Then last night we...” Derek trails away, eyes going distant as he recalls last night. “It was so weird. You know that saying like you’re walking through a fog? I swear I could see the fog around us in the kitchen! He _made_ a fog appear when he was making this _delicious_ chocolate sauce. And it was warm and soft and romantic! How the hell can _fog_ **feel** romantic? And he tasted... like chocolate. His fingers...”  
  


Derek’s hands slide up into his hair, spoiling his neat do. “He’s smart. He’s funny. He’s _beautiful_. And he can _cook_!” He looks to Laura, watching her peel her blazer off before thoughtlessly mirroring her actions. Derek goes so far as to loosen his tie before groaning, “Stiles makes the most _amazing_ food that just makes you feel _crazy_! It’s total chaos. We’ve only had one date and I feel like I’m losing it. When I’m with him it feels like I’ve known him forever instead of just a few days! And did I mention the fog?” Laura gives him a sleepy affirmative, but Derek plows through it. “It was like you could _see_ what we were feeling! That’s not possible right?”  
  


His beloved, irritating, only older sister throws her legs on top of his thighs and tells him, “Listen to me, Derek. Listen to me very carefully. You don’t have time for this right now. You gotta keep your head in the game! You can’t let yourself get distracted by a pretty face, not with the restaurant opening on Friday.”  
  


He turns slowly to give Laura an incredulous look. “Weren’t you the one encouraging me to go on a date with him in the first place?”  
  


“Well that was before all of this,” she waves a hand at him and his present state. “I mean. If you’re that bothered by it, then you could just walk out. Plus, you’re terrible at multi-tasking. You want to make the restaurant launch a success right? Then you need to focus on work instead of your chef.”  
  


“You’re right,” Derek agrees because Laura is right, 100 percent right. He cannot afford a distraction when there’s so much riding on the success of the restaurant. “I mean, look at me! I’m stealing someone else’s pastries! _I don’t even eat dessert_!”  
  


Laura pats his cheek, hand heavy and warm but understanding. It soothes away the anxiety gnawing on his already shot nerves. “It’s incredibly tasty dessert though. But look, whatever you do? _Don’t_ see him again.”  
  


Curling into her, Derek rests his head on her shoulder because he needs some comfort right now and he’s not ashamed of it, goddammit. Human beings are social, _tactile_ creatures who need their nine positive touches a day. Or was it eight. That’s not important. “You’re right. I shouldn’t. I won’t. I’ll go meet him and tell him that it’s over.”  
  


He feels her shaking her head rather than sees it. “Too risky. Use the phone.”  
  


_That_ makes him look up and half heartedly glare at his sister. “I can handle this!” It’s not the first time he’s had to break up with someone (and Derek certainly doubt’s its going to be the last.)  
  


“Are you sure?” Laura inquires, eyebrows dipping down in worry.  
  


“You think I’m going to give in to him?”  
  


“I don’t know. Are you?”  
  


He does _not_ sigh at Laura’s apprehensive tone, pulling out of her warm hug. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing,” Derek argues, giving the discarded pastry box one more sad look. “I’ll go over there after work. I’ll sit down calmly, have a meal and everything’s going to be alright.”  
  


Laura’s disbelieving snort and muttered, “Good luck with that,” is drowned under Cora’s sarcastic, “In case you didn’t notice, we’ve got a lot of work to do. Just because you’re older than me doesn’t mean you can shove your work on me and hide.” They look at the woman standing in the doorway before giving her identical sheepish smiles.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


As he moves from one stove to another - flipping the tiger prawns over, giving the mussels a good stir, passing the wine bottle to Scott - Stiles feels like the conductor of a grand orchestra. Instead of a baton, Stiles has his wooden ladle. In place of the woodwinds, brass, strings and percussion sections, he’s got the grill, stove and oven, spice and wine rack and fridge to direct.  
  


He’s busy plating the mussels up, wiping the sweat off his brow with his folded sleeve and wishing for more ventilation in the kitchen, when he received an unexpected surprise.  
  


“Stiles? There’s a guy out here. Says he needs to talk to you?” Erica says from the kitchen door, moving inside the room when Jackson sweeps in with a tray laden with dirty dishes.  
  


Stiles stares at her, rubs his neckerchief against his sweaty neck before pointing at the mussels. “Table 6.” He leans to the side to look at the girl as Jackson plates up. “Did he give a name?”  
  


“He said Derek.”  
  


Derek? Stiles feels his heart flutter with delight. “Derek Hale?” Scott asks, eyes and hands focused on the task of dribbling the mint sauce in a delicate circle around the lamb chops. Queen Shelly is hanging out near Scott, hiding under several large lettuce leaves. What she’s doing there, Stiles doesn’t know and doesn’t want to hazard a guess either. “What’s he doing back here?”  
  


“I don’t know. He just said he needs to talk with Stiles -- watch it Greenberg!” She snaps as the broad shouldered man clips her shoulder with his tray.  
  


“Sorry!” he apologizes hurriedly. “Is the order for table 8 ready? And Lydia’s saying she expects four free dinners for waiting tables tonight. Danny’s asking for you, Erica. The bar’s pretty busy tonight.”  
  


Stiles watches Erica roll her eyes, but whatever she mutters is lost to the happy din of the seating area. He can’t help but feel proud of the noise. It means the restaurant is full of happy, satisfied customers! Even the growing stack of dirty dishes is a heartwarming sight because there’s barely any leftovers on any plate. _Empty_ plates are coming back. Greenberg grins at the dishes which have nothing but a few streaks of sauce on them, showing them off to Stiles with a ‘Check it out!’ grin before he quickly goes back out.  
  


Stiles is plating the prawns, gwaffing as Scott tells him about this customer they had at lunch who went through appetizers, soup, main course and dessert and then insisted on doing the whole meal all over again, just in the opposite order. It’s on the tail end of the story that he catches sight of Derek sticking his head into the kitchen.  
  


“Derek!” Stiles greets, waving his dirty hand towel at the business man before throwing it over his shoulder. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight!” He doesn’t even try to hide his happiness at the sight of Derek standing in his kitchen, dark blazer hooked in two fingers and casually hanging off his shoulder. Stiles can’t help but think that Derek ought to be a model. He’s certainly got the look for it.  
  


Scott bumps into him, dumping a fresh batch of marinated prawns onto the grill before transferred several more onto new plates. Derek eyes Scott and the organized chaos moving in and out of the kitchen, looking very much out of his element when he says, “I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead, but I needed to talk to you. For just a minute.”  
  


“Are the fish and chips ready?” Jackson snarls as he stomps back into the kitchen. “If I hear that kid ask for his food one more time I swear I’m going to-”  
  


“It’s ready!” Scott holds the plate up, dumping a large stack of golden fries next to the perfectly battered, crispy fried fish. “Same table! Salmon, shrimps and lobster are ready to go out.”  
  


With an apologetic look at Derek, Stiles ducks down to check the pastries in the oven before popping back up. “You see it’s a bit of a bad time right now. Can it be a little later?”  
  


“Sure.”  
  


Stiles grins in relief, laughing at the startled look Derek shoots Erica when she pushes a few plates into his arms, telling him to hold them while she gets a tray. Derek catches his eye and smiles helplessly. Stiles can’t even begin to describe the happy feeling he gets when he sees how easily Derek just blends in with the rest of them.  
  


As it turns out, Derek winds up sticking through most of the dinner rush - helping load and unload the trays, passing clean plates to Stiles and Scott, chatting away with whomever is nearby. To put it simply? He fits in with them like a missing puzzle piece they didn’t even know was missing in the first place. And that makes Stiles want to shout with delight. Especially whenever Derek and his eyes meet and Derek would smile at him, small but pleased.  
  


As soon as the rush passes, Scott pulls a table for two out of somewhere and sets it up for Derek. “You’ll get to see us make your meal.”  
  


Stiles puts extra love and care into the dish Derek selects for his dinner (creamy dijon lamb chops with a side of asparagus) and serves it himself. Erica drops off two glasses of red wine with a cheeky wink and soft, “Enjoy the meal.” And as much as Stiles tries to sit at the table and give Derek company, he still has to get up mid-conversation a few times to help Scott out. It’s only when the last customer has left (belly’s full and mood content) that the others beat a hasty goodbye - leaving the couple alone in the restaurant.  
  


He tugs the plaid neckkerchief off, shucking his stained chef whites with a tired groan. “I’m _so_ sorry about that, ” Stiles apologizes as he sits down again. “We’ve been swamped for the past few days. I hardly get time to breathe during the lunch and dinner hours. Dinner’s worse than lunch though. But that’s another story. What did you want to talk to me about?”  
  


Derek presses the stiff napkin to the corners of his mouth before dropping the white cloth next to his empty plate. The serious look Derek’s been sporting as the night has worn on concerns Stiles, but he hopes that whatever Derek wants to talk about isn’t anything bad. He’s forcing himself to remain optimistic, Stiles will admit that. So he sits, fiddling with his wine glass, waiting for Derek to speak.  
  


“You’re a great cook.”  
  


It’s the sincerity and earnest look Derek shoots him, along with his words, which cause Stiles to blush and look down at his hands. “Yeah, well,” Stiles hedges, taking a sip of liquid courage. “Up until last week I couldn’t even poach an egg properly.”  
  


Derek laughs softly. It makes Stiles’ fingertips tingle. Or that could very well be the wine talking. “I find that hard to believe.”  
  


He shakes his head, smiling wryly at Derek. “I tried but nothing ever worked. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Scott. He’s got a ton of horror stories.” After they both have taken a sip of the wine, Stiles continues, “And then last week, everything just... came together on its own. Like magic or something.” He lightly shrugs to show his confusion.  
  


His attention is divided between Derek’s thoughtful expression and his fingers as they distractedly roll the stem of the wine glass. “Maybe it’s like riding a bike. First nine times you fall off, but the tenth time you just.... ride for a mile.”  
  


“I guess so,” Stiles murmurs lowly. It’s plausible, but he gets the feeling it isn’t. Call it a childish mindset, but Stiles firmly believes his good luck streak is because of his mom’s plaid neckerchief. Ever since he’s found it, his cooking has taken a turn for the incredible. But he’s too shy to bring it up in front of Derek, scared that he might be mocked for his belief.  
  


“ _That’s_ what I feel like right now.” Derek’s wry, amused tone makes Stiles look up and then at where the man is pointing. He’s pointing at Queen Shelly, who is still hanging out under the lettuce leaves. “A little crab salad.”  
  


Snorting, Stiles pushes himself up to his aching feet. “I don’t think she’s a normal crab.” Shelly waves a claw at them, but doesn’t nip Stiles’ fingers as he gently pulls one leaf off the crustacean’s head.  
  


“She is a bit _odd_.”  
  


Derek’s humored tone makes Stiles grin as he walks past Queen towards the stove. “How about dessert?” Tonight’s dessert was vanilla bean crepes with a peaches and cream stuffing, dusted lightly with sugar. There’s still a good amount of pancake mix left to make crepes, as is the cream filling. All he has to do is make the peach filling. And there’s three peaches left in the fruit basket. Perfect really.  
  


Picking up the knife, Stiles begins to carefully skin the peach. He takes his time to run the small knife carefully under the skin, not wanting to take any more of the juicy flesh off than he has too. Stiles peels the skin off, cutting the strip off with a quick twist of the wrist. And then stares at how the curved piece of peach skin paused mid fall, does a lazy twirl and drops.  
  


Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles catches sight of Derek slowly getting up out of his seat right as the first bit of skin hits the counter with soft wet slap. “That... is a very good knife.” The man mutters, glancing up over Stiles’ head before taking a seat nearby.  
  


Stiles frowns down at the table, forgetting about the fruit in his hand because _that_ was weird. Weirder than the fog he thought he’d seen surrounding them during their first kiss. “I never used to be this good,” he mumbles to himself.  
  


And then Derek goes and replies, “I enjoy a good aerodynamic phenomenon.”  
  


Glancing up at Derek, then back at the peel, Stiles asks, “It could be a draft from the air conditioner right?”  
  


As one, they both look up at the brown ceiling overhead, devoid of any air conditioners. “Hallucination?” Derek offers hesitantly. “From the wine?”  
  


Stiles levels the other man with a flat look. “Do you even know the odds of two people _sharing_ the same hallucination at the same time?” But Derek’s too busy poking the peach peel, picking it up and throwing it a few inches up into the air only to watch it fall down, without any floating this time.  
  


Scrubbing his hands over his face, Stiles begins to pace around the counter in the hopes that _maybe_ walking and talking will help him make _some_ sense of his crazy situation, because when he thinks about it? It just doesn’t make sense! It’s been a crazy couple of days and Stiles has tried his best not to think about it, but now that he is, he can’t _stop_. “There’s something going on here,” Stiles says, voice shaking slightly as he pulls on his black t-shirt, runs his fingers through his messy hair. “I don’t even know _how_ to explain it, but it’s starting to scare me.”  
  


His voice lowers down to an almost whisper at his confession, eyes down on the clean counter. Stiles feels like an idiot saying the words aloud because he _knows_ what he just saw and not being able to think of a reasonable explanation is _scary_. Like losing your mind levels of scary.  
  


Ugh! He needs to do something! Before he thinks about it, he’s got the peach in hand again and he’s back to peeling it. This time he doesn’t look at the peel as it falls down, focused more on slicing the fruit down into thin pieces which he will neatly arrange on a warm crepe, add a good dollop of cream filling, fold, decorate with syrup and powdered sugar before presenting it to Derek.  
  


Stiles has half a peach left in his hands when he looks up at Derek, who is still glaring up at the ceiling and slowly passing his hand through the air. Like he’s looking for strings maybe. It’s weird and adorable considering how serious Derek looks.  
  


Stiles looks down, eyes on his hands while he listens to Derek. “No. No. This is _exactly_ how we’re supposed to feel.” He looks up at the statement, wordlessly asking for Derek to explain. Stiles wants to watch Derek walk around the table, but if he does, he risks cutting himself. So he looks back down, aware of Derek’s movements through his peripheral vision. “You’re supposed to feel a bit light headed, and distracted. But our senses perk up. It’s kind of like deja vu.”  
  


He thinks about it, holding onto the peach stone for a second before dropping it on the side. That makes sense. When you’re in love with someone, it does feel like that. Oh God. Is he in love with Derek? Stiles immediately feels light headed, glancing over at Derek who is standing inches away from him, still frowning as he talks.  
  


“It’s vivid. _Incredibly_ vivid actually.” Derek’s voice trails off as Stiles picks up a peach slice. “When you’re hyper aware of your surroundings and you think you can hear something, like bells ringing or a song, but it’s not real. It’s just your-”  
  


Stiles silences the rest of Derek’s words by offering a slice to him, holding the juicy flesh up to Derek’s lips. And Derek accepts immediately. Stiles feels a rush of hot _want_ roll through him at the sight of Derek’s teeth biting into the peach, a few drops of juice rolling down his hand. And then Derek chases them.  
  


He shivers, leaning into Derek as he grabs Stiles’ wrist and gently directs Stiles to eat the remaining half. Stiles _swears_ he hears a tiny ‘ting’ go off somewhere nearby, like an oven timer going off. The peach tastes sweet, with the smallest hints of tart underlying it. And it is so _juicy_ , it’s _amazing_. He feels a little dumbstruck by the flavor, or possibly because Derek is now holding his hand captive between both of his. “Stiles. You’ve become a _great_ chef because you’re talented. Not because of magic.” And he seals his words with a kiss to Stiles’ sticky fingers.  
  


“Pure and simple,” Derek murmurs, kissing Stiles’ fingers once more before taking the tip of one into his mouth and sucking it clean of any juice that might have remained.  
  


Feeling happy, embarrassed, _relieved_ , horny, Stiles ducks his head, but not enough to miss watching Derek sucking on his fingertips. “Thanks,” he says shyly, raising his free hand up to grab Derek’s wrist in return before he presses a kiss of his own to Derek’s fingers. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”  
  


And really, what had he been? _Honestly_. **Magic**. That wasn’t possible. It makes sense that it’s the skills he’s acquired after so many years of practice and trying. It’s just like Derek said - you try riding a bike and you fall down a bunch of times, but when you get going, you just keep going and going and going.  
  


He moans quietly at the salty, sweet taste of Derek’s fingers, gasping quietly when he feels the fingers being replaced with familiar soft lips. There’s curious fingertips skating down his jaw, coaxing a shiver and a moan, the first causing Derek’s fingers to tighten behind Stiles’ neck. The second Derek swallows down greedily, lips parting to capture Stiles’ lips over and over again in increasingly frantic kisses which make Stiles wrap his arms around Derek to pull him closer.  
  


“I really love kissing you,” Derek murmurs, one hand sliding down to cup Stiles’ ass.  
  


Feeling dizzy and lightheaded, he tightens his grip on Derek. Otherwise Stiles is afraid of his knees giving out. Or worse, that he might float away to the ceiling, far, far out of the reach of Derek’s talented lips. His body already feels as light as a helium balloon at hearing Derek’s words.  
  


“I love you too,” Stiles whispers back, excitement flooding him. He feels like he’s floating away the longer he and Derek exchange kiss after kis-  
  


Derek’s muffled cry of pain, along with the small bite he inflicts on Stiles’ top lip makes Stiles pull away with a start. _That_ and the fact that something just hit his head. Stiles looks up and stares in bewilderment at the ceiling before looking down, right as Derek exclaims, “What the hell is going on?”  
  


“We’re floating!” Stiles points out with delight, shaking his feet slightly to test the feeling. Which is really trippy,actually.  
  


He reaches out to touch Derek, who looks like he’s trying to become one with the ceiling with the way his head is pressing against the embossed panels. At his touch, Derek’s glare turns from the ceiling to Stiles, “Make this stop!”  
  


“But this is amazing!” Stiles points out.  
  


“No!” Derek growls angrily. “It’s not! This is _insane_!”  
  


The way Derek refuses to look at him, and is very clearly angry, but panicking over this situation is the equivalent of someone sticking a pin in his happy balloon. Stiles finds himself floating down, as though it was his good mood which had lifted him up in the first place. But Derek. Derek’s still stuck to the ceiling. Proper stuck there. It’s strange to see the man ‘lying’ on the ceiling, hands flat against the surface like he’s trying to push away from whatever force keeping him stuck there.  
  


“How the hell do I get down?” the man barks down at Stiles.  
  


He sighs tiredly before replying, “Calm down, don’t get hysterical.”  
  


It gets the obvious response. Derek stops struggling long enough to grind out, “I’m not _hysterical,_ Stiles! I’m _trapped_ on the damned ceiling! You need to make this stop. Whatever you did, just make it stop!”  
  


Disbelief and rage flood him, making his throw his hands out as he yells, “Whatever _I_ did?! I didn’t do anything except kiss you! What makes you think I’m the one responsible for you playing Spiderman!”  
  


“Of course you’re the one responsible for this!” Derek yells back, face turning red with anger. “Who else could it be? Just... Just..Just figure out a way to get me down! Say something!” He angrily slaps his hand against the ceiling, causing a portion of one panel to crack and drop down a few inches away from Stiles.  
  


Running a hand through his hair, Stiles lets out an exasperated noise because of course. Like, _of course_ something like this would happen. He’s magic or something and he figures it out the exact instance he says, ‘I love you’ to the guy he likes and the guy in question totally freaks out. He totally hates his life right about now.  
  


“You want me to say something? Fine!” Stiles waggles his fingers at Derek, “Abracadabra!”  
  


Derek pauses mid-struggle to scowl down at Stiles. Clearly he doesn’t appreciate Stiles’ sarcasm. And the next thing Stiles knows, Derek’s falling down to the floor. He jumps back and just as quickly steps forward to help Derek off the ground.  
  


“Good thing the ceiling isn’t that high, huh,” Stiles tries in a weak voice, trailing off when Derek shakes his hand away and moves to stand well out of Stiles’ reach. He tries not to feel hurt at the alarmed look Derek shoots at the ceiling before looking at him like he’s never seen Stiles before. Like he’s some kind of freak.  
  


“I better go.”  
  


Derek makes a move to walk around the counter, around _Stiles_ , but Stiles is quicker. He zips to the other side, cutting off Derek’s exit path to ask, “Why?” He doesn’t want Derek to leave. Not like this.  
  


The incredulous look he earns for his question makes Stiles want to crawl into the nearest cabinet and stay there till doomsday. “You _kissed_ me and we wound up _on the ceiling_!” Derek’s voice goes high in disbelief as he angrily points to the spot where their heads had bumped into the ceiling. “That’s not normal! Not by _any_ definition of the term. And I’m _not_ going to stick around and see what else you’re capable of doing to me!”  
  


Stiles flinches at that, cut deep at the accusation. His voice trembles, because of hurt or anger, Stiles isn’t sure, when he answers back, “I would _never_ do anything to hurt you! How could you even think that I would?”  
  


“Because every time I’m around you things just _happen_!” Derek snaps back. “It’s like I don’t have any control over what’s going on! _You’re_ the one calling all the shots and I’m being dragged along with your whims! Too many strange things happen when I’m around you -- things I can’t control! And I can’t stand that feeling. I can’t deal with that much uncertainty in my life.”  
  


Stiles glares back at Derek, willing himself to focus on his anger instead of his hurt feelings because if he thinks about the latter, he’s going to do something stupid. Like cry in front of Derek. And there’s no _way_ he wants to give Derek the satisfaction of seeing him like that.  
  


“I’m going to take control of my own life,” Derek mutters as he shoulders past Stiles roughly, grabbing his jacket from the back of his seat on his way out. “This is the _last_ thing I need right now.”  
  


Turning out, Stiles shoots back, “Is that right? I’ve got news for you _Derek_. Because a man’s character is his destiny!”  
  


He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry when Derek pauses in the doorway, both hands holding the swinging doors open. “Was that some kind of a curse?”  
  


God. Stiles suddenly feels so damned tired of this whole situation that he lets the fight just bleed out of him. In the fact of Derek’s startled, _fearful_ look, what else can he do? “In your case? Yeah.” Frozen, Stiles remains standing in his spot as he watches Derek walk out the door. He grimaces hard at the loud ‘bang’ the entrance door makes as the man exits the building.  
  


“Great,” he grouses to the ceiling, blinking back angry, hot tears before pressing his palms against his eyes. “Just. _Great_.”  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


The last words Scott expects to hear Stiles say, after you take into account the fact he’d left his best friend alone with his crush, are “We need to talk.”  
  


Stiles’ solemn words make Scott look up from where he’s going through the day’s paper. They’re seated outside in the dining area and the morning sun is peeking through the blinds. Erica and Greenberg are expected to show up in another hour to help get the place ready while Scott and Stiles get the lunch prep done.  
  


But it looks like a heart to heart is on the menu before work. He looks down at the article he’s going through, then up at Stiles’ serious face before joking, “You’re right. We need to talk about that mess you left in the kitchen last night.”  
  


“It’s not that.” Stiles sighs, running his hands through his hair. For his part, Scott waits for Stiles. Clearly his best friend is upset about something. He just hopes they haven’t run into more restaurant troubles.  
  


He waits as Stiles sighs heavily, licks his lips, presses them together before blurting out, “It’s Derek.” Just the way Stiles’ face crumples has Scott pushing aside his good humor along with the newspaper. A part of him sighs and mutters, ‘I knew it,’ because he’d known it. He had just _known_ Stiles was going to get into trouble falling so hard and fast for that Derek Hale. Scott wants to bite down on the tired ‘I told you so’ which is creeping up his throat right as Stiles twists his fingers together and says, “After everyone left, we were just... hanging out together and we started kissing and then... we started floating and he left.”  
  


Blinking slowly, Scott waits for an explanation, but the way Stiles is staring at his own hands...  
  


“You mean metaphorically right?” he asks just to be sure.  
  


Stiles makes a face. “Literally. Floating.”  
  


Is this some kind of a joke? Scott stares at his best friend, who looks confused and wary and generally not like he’s trying to pull a prank on Scott. “Literally floating,” he echoes dryly. “Like your feet off the ground, heading up to the ceiling floating?”  
  


Stiles lets out a pained groan before dropping his head down on the table with a heavy thunk. “Ugh! I don’t even know anymore! Forget I said anything. The floating isn’t even the point here.”  
  


Propping his head up in his palm, Scott stares at his best friend attempting to become one with the table. “Then what _is_ the point? What’s the problem? That he left?”  
  


“I guess,” Stiles mumbles into the wood, still face down.  
  


Scott gently hits Stiles’ head with the newspaper. “You need to talk to him.”  
  


“He didn’t really seem interested in talking to me. He seemed a lot more interested in just getting the hell away from me and _staying_ away.”  
  


That’s a pickle, isn’t it? Scott grimaces, hating himself so hard for how being a chef has made him prone to idioms with foods in them. It seems clear enough that Derek’s got issues. Possibly commitment related issues? If he hadn’t seen the way Derek had watched Stiles work last night, he would have told Stiles to forget about the guy. But anyone with eyes could see the attraction between them so...  
  


“Maybe he’s scared,” Scott whispers to himself.  
  


That gets Stiles’ attention. With his chin pressing into the table, he looks up and asks, “Say what?”  
  


“I think he’s scared. Of falling in love,” Scott explains quickly. Stiles immediately makes a face, sitting up straight as he does so. “I saw the way you both were looking at each other last night. You could tell how much you both were into each other. And I think that if he wanted to brush you off after the last time he spent the night, then he would have. I don’t think he would have come over here to have dinner with you, much less kiss you! So I’m just guessing that maybe he’s scared of how _much_ he feels for you.”  
  


It honestly feels like a shot in the dark, but he doesn’t want Stiles to give up on this. Stiles has been there for him through the few relationships he’s had, encouraging him and comforting him in equal parts. Not only is this the least Scott can do for his brother, but he really wants this to work out for Stiles.  
  


Who doesn’t look like he believes Scott. “Look,” Scott tries again in a softer voice. “I think you just need to show him that being in love? That’s a whole lot better than the whole falling in love process. Go find him and tell him that. Sure it’s scary, but it’s the good kind of scary. The best kind of scary, even.”  
  


That finally cracks a watery smile out of Stiles. “That was kind of sweet.”  
  


“It was, wasn’t it,” Scott preens, unrolling the newspaper before turning it towards Stiles. “And speaking of. Check this out. Someone reviewed the restaurant.”  
  


Stiles’ _immediately_ perks up. The suddenness with which his body snaps into attention reminds Scott of a diving board. In fact, he’s surprised he doesn’t actually hear a _twang_ noise. “They _what_?” Stiles grabs the newspaper, holding it up to his nose while his eyes frantically move over the tiny print.  
  


And _that’s_ the Stiles he knows and loves. The one who is beaming at the article, doing a happy little dance in his seat as he crows, “‘A magical journey from appetizer to dessert! The Beacon’s menu might be limited, but you can rest assured that every item on will be delicious experience for all your senses!’ _Dude_!” Stiles laughs over the top of the paper. “This is _great_!”  
  


“We need to thank Lydia for making this happen.”  
  


But his gentle reminder falls on deaf ears. Stiles is pouring over the rest of the review, grinning from ear to ear as he reads on. Oh well, Scott thinks with amusement. At least Stiles is back in a good mood.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


No matter what anyone says, he’s not hiding in his office and he _hasn’t_ been hiding in his office for the last 3 days. No, he’s simply been very busy dealing with the last minute problems which have cropped up. Forget the fact that he ought to be down on site at the restaurant (to which he will argue that his team is more than capable of dealing with whatever problem that might come up). But yeah, he’s not hiding! Derek is just...  
  


Okay, fine. He’s hiding. But what can you expect? Just two days ago he went to break up with someone and found out they were a witch or a wizard or something and they’d _cursed_ him! He honestly dares anyone to be in his position and _not_ hide.  
  


So when someone knocks on his door, he can’t help but jolt in his seat. It can’t be Stiles right? Come back to finish the curse. Or do worse to him? “Who is it?”  
  


Without further ado, Laura pushes the door open with a, “Who do you think, dumbass? I told you we were going to meet at 9:30. And why the hell is it so hot in here? Open a damned window.”  
  


Just Laura. Derek almost sags back in relief when he realizes Laura is crossing the room to crack a window open. He’s on his feet immediately, stopping his older sister halfway through her journey with a loud, “No! Don’t!”  
  


“Why not?” She asks incredulously, eyes glancing over Derek’s messy form. He’s foregone his jacket because of how hot his office is and Derek is pretty sure he’s got a few sweat patches on his back as well. Generally, he’s sure he looks like a mess. “You’re sweating like a pig! You need some fresh air in here, Derek!”  
  


Derek glances at the windows before hissing, “He might get in.”  
  


After a moment’s pause, Laura slowly asks, “Who might get in?”  
  


“Stiles.”  
  


Shapely eyebrows arch high in disbelief. “We’re on the eighth floor, Derek. How the hell is Stiles going to come in _through the window?_ Last I checked, he was a chef, not Spiderman.”  
  


“It’s worse than that,” Derek hisses, gently shaking Laura by her wrist. “He’s a _wizard_.”  
  


And now she just looks confused and angry. “ _Really_ , Derek?”  
  


Holding his hand up, palm out, he quickly explains, “Remember how I was going to go over and break things off with him?”  
  


“You succumbed. I _knew_ it.” She groans, tipping her head back as she does. “I can’t believe you _did_ that! I told you not to go see him again!”  
  


Scowling heavily, he cuts Laura’s rant off before it can start. “I didn’t _succumb_! I never had a chance! He used whatever magic he has to make me feel what I’ve been feeling! How else do you explain the fact that I was pinned to the ceiling after we kissed?” If his voice trails off slightly at the memory of the kiss then. Well. Derek’s blaming the heat. He’s feeling dizzy and hasn’t had more than a glass of orange juice and a cup of espresso.  
  


Laura’s blinking slowly at him, one eyebrow arched high as she quietly judges him. It pulls Derek back to the present situation, allowing him to continue in a firm voice,  “And then he cursed me!”  
  


“He cursed you? Like what, did he wiggle his fingers at you and try to turn you into a toad?”  
  


Unamused by the humor in her voice, Derek snaps, “No! He said in this creepy little voice that a man’s character is his destiny. What else do you think that was?”  
  


His sister is actually shaking slightly. Red lips press together for a long moment before she says in a choked voice, “He’s a wise wizard who casts his spells from fortune cookies.”  
  


“This isn’t funny, Laura!” Derek is this close to whining when Laura breaks down in a fit of giggles. He wants to push her away and sulk in his couch, but she’s leaning against him, continuing to laugh when he tries to defend himself. “I know this sounds insane, that _I_ sound insane, but that really happened!”  
  


She hiccups. “Oh. _Oooh_! I get it!” She flat out _chortles_ while doing a little dance that has Derek wanting to groan and hide behind his desk. “He’s put a _spell_ on you! It’s that old black magic, right?” Now he throws his hands up and walks away, because nope, he’s not equipped to deal with this shit today. Or ever. Not that it stops Laura from giggling, “You’re just falling in love, Derek! There’s nothing _that_ scary about this! And frankly, I think if kissing someone makes you feel like you’re floating? They’re a _keeper_.”  
  


Derek ignores her, covering his face with a palm as he mutters, “I should have stuck to the rule.”  
  


There’s a warm hand gently patting his back, rubbing small circles in. He sags into the touch as Laura kids, “Wanna know what my rule is? Falling in love can be scary as hell but if you’ve got someone to hold your hand in that jump, you hold onto them tight as you can. It’s a scary ride but it’s so amazing. And usually pretty worth it.”  
  


Theoretically that sounds great and all, but what if he doesn’t _want_ to enjoy this ride? What if he’s questioning his entire decision to get on the ride in the first place? Because Derek doesn’t remember agreeing to this! He doesn’t remember agreeing to feel like he’s Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole!  
  


This whole speech is resting on the tip of his tongue when someone knocks softly on the open door.  
  


Both siblings turn around at the same time towards the door, Laura’s amusement shifting into a polite tone. “Can I help you?”  
  


Stiles looks between them, eyes lingering on Derek for a beat longer than necessary before he hesitantly says, “I’m here to see Derek.”  
  


He might be imagining this, but there’s a vague hurt yet hopeful edge to Stiles’ words and they make Derek feel as wary as a cornered animal. Without thinking about it, he takes a step forward, half blocking Laura as he growls, “How did you get in here?”  
  


“The door.”  
  


Stiles’ simple reply is laced with heavy sarcasm. It causes Laura to let out an inelegant snort, barely muffled to boot. Derek shoots her a wounded look because she _can’t_ be siding with Stiles right now.  
  


“I just wanted to talk to you. About what happened,” Stiles begins, voice soft and hopeful. He takes a careful step deeper into the office. Closer to Derek. The way Stiles’ focus hones in on him makes Derek want to take a step back behind Laura. He’s not sure what game Stiles is playing, but Derek has no interest in it.  
  


Stiles flinches immediately when Derek takes a discrete step back and away from him.  
  


And then he waits a beat. Like he’s expecting Derek to say something, but Derek, Derek doesn’t have anything to say. He’s still too shocked by Stiles’ sudden appearance. He’s not sure whether to feel annoyed or grateful when Laura cuts in. “I’m going to take a stab in the dark and say you’re Stiles? It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Laura, Derek’s sister. And I’m leaving.”  
  


Oh _no_. Derek snags her wrist again, holding her in place before she can even take a step. “ _You_ stay.” He says with a pointed look at Stiles. Derek hopes that Stiles picks up on the implication that Derek doesn’t find his presence welcoming.  
  


There’s a flash of something quick and sharp in Stiles’ eyes, but it comes and goes too fast for Derek to recognize. And he’s not sure whether it’s his words or that emotion which makes Laura sigh and mutter, “This is not good,” under her breath.  
  


Clenching his jaw, Derek nods jerkily at Stiles. “Whatever you have to say, say it.”  
  


He can’t help but freeze when Stiles takes a hesitant step forward. And another. And another, until they’re within touching distance. Distantly, Derek realizes he’s let go of Laura and she’s doing her best to give them a certain measure of privacy while still eavesdropping on them. And honestly? Derek’s really not paying attention to her. He’s too busy taking in Stiles - the messy hair, the dress shirt, the jeans, the dark circles under his eyes.  
  


Stiles looks tired and frazzled. He looks the way Derek _feels_ , as crazy as that sounds. “Look,” he begins, holding his hands out plaintively, “I know the last couple of days have been weird. Like, _really_ weird. But... See. Ever since I met you, all these _amazing_ things started to happen. My life was ordinary. It was _boring_. And,” He steps forward, fingers reaching out for his own. Derek doesn’t exactly flinch, but the way he pulls his hand back is enough to give Stiles’ pause and Laura to half turn her head in attention.  
  


It takes Stiles a few seconds to recover from the rejection and it shows in his shaky voice. “And I can’t explain them. Like, at all. I’m usually great at explaining things, figuring out the reasons behind stuff and all because I love a good mystery. But what happened between us? I don’t know. And I _know_ not having a rational explanation bothers you.”  
  


There’s an odd urge growing in the pit of his stomach, pulsing with every heavy beat of his heart. It’s even got a tiny voice. Urging him to take a step forward and touch Stiles. Reassure him and the pained look of his face. But logic and common sense hold him steady because Stiles is right. He’s spot on in his observation. “Derek. Your life is probably filled with all these amazing experiences and spectacular stuff, but mine... _wasn’t_. After I met you? It was... God, this is going to sound so cheesy. It was magical okay? For the first time, _ever_ , I felt like I could do _anything_.” Stiles pauses to take a deep breath, voice finally steadying into something firm but gentle. “I really don’t know if I need _you_ to keep this feeling, but I do know that I _want_ you.”  
  


There it is. Stiles is standing in his office, the day after Derek yelled and walked out on him, holding his heart out to Derek. And Derek’s at a complete loss for words.  
  


It feels like the wires inside his brain have been crossed and they’re sparking. There’s nothing but static and white noise inside his skull. What should he say? What should he do? The longer he looks into Stiles’ pleading eyes, the more he realizes how much Stiles has come to care for him in so short a time period. And the more Derek wants to cave in and accept.  
  


But he can’t. Right?  
  


He doesn’t even know if what he feels for Stiles is real. It can’t be real. He barely knows the guy! They’ve only met a handful of times, known each other for less than a month. Derek doesn’t even know Stiles’ real _name_ for crying out loud!  
  


And yet.  
  


“I...” Derek begins hesitantly, clumsily reaching for words and notions which are far out of his grasp.  
  


His mouth begins to form words even as Stiles quietly asks, “What do you feel Derek?”  
  


What does he feel?  
  


With a slow shake of his head, Derek answers, “I’m not sure.”  
  


It’s the truth and yet they’re worse than _any_ lie Derek’s ever said. There’s a hand clutching his heart and _squeezing_ the organ so tight Derek’s whole body _aches_ when Stiles’ eyes glisten at the corners. He expects tears to swiftly follow, but Stiles simply clenches his jaw.  
  


Derek’s ready to flinch away from whatever angry words Stiles is thinking when the door slams open.  
  


“I refuse to work under these conditions! This is not a knife!” Derek stares in shock as Jean Paul strides into his office, kitchen knife in hand. His usually heavy French accent is thicker in anger, face red as he holds the knife up before throwing it at Derek. It’s either his good luck or just bad aim on Jean Paul’s part that the knife misses him by a good distance, but it sinks several inches into the wall behind Derek.  
  


From her hiding place behind the coffee table, Laura yells, “What the hell?”  
  


But the chef ignores her, barrelling on as he stands in front of Derek with another knife in hand. “I spit on your knives!” And does so, much to Derek’s confusion. Which only mounts as the man walks over to the wall and _spits on the knife embedded in his wall_.  
  


He feels like someone just threw him in the middle of a tornado when the chef picks up the model of the restaurant and declares, “I spit on your restaurant!” and spits on it.  
  


Panic floods him when the man sticks the second knife _into_ the middle of the model before turning towards Derek, pointing at him as he declares, “And finally, I spit on y-”  
  


“Don’t even think about it!” Derek warns quickly, because there’s no way he’s going to let this pretentious Frenchman spit on him.  
  


Laura quickly slips next to him, beaming at Jean Paul. “Allow me.” And spits on Derek’s arm. Derek stares in disgusted horror at his shirt, a tiny bit grateful she at least spit on the sleeve instead of his forearm. “There? Are we good now?” She asks the chef.  
  


The tall man glares at her, pointing at her now. “That is the first intelligent thing you have done. I refuse to work with your company. Au revoir.” The latter part he directs at Derek even as he sweeps out of the room, acting more like a prince than a chef.  
  


“You’re under contract!” Derek yells at the man’s back, who says something Derek is pretty sure is a bunch of curse words in French, before he slams the door shut. Anger, disbelief, _panic_ floods him as he stares at the closed doors before he realizes Stiles is still there.  
  


Staring at him with those wide brown eyes that only serve to irritate Derek more. He turns to Laura, gesturing at Stiles with his hand. “There! See! _Now_ do you believe me? Every time he’s around, things go to shit for me!”  
  


The shock in Stiles’ eyes flares into heated anger _immediately_. He even takes a step forward when he asks in a voice heavy with incredulity, “You think _I_ had something to do with that?”  
  


“If the broom fits.” Derek can’t stop himself from snapping back.  
  


Stiles’ mouth falls open, his head shaking slightly before he loudly asks, “What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”  
  


But before Derek can explain or _breathe_ , the door to his office opens again. He can’t help but cover his eyes with a heavy hand and wonder when his office turned into a train station and why no one told him.  
  


Peter steps into the room, holding a handkerchief up for everyone to see. “So who is going to explain to me why our chef just spat on me before declaring _he_ was firing _us_?” This day just keeps getting better and better clearly. Which is the cue for Peter to notice Stiles and asks, “Who is this? You look familiar.”  
  


“No one,” Stiles hurriedly answers, taking a step back towards the door. “I’m gonna go, actually.”  
  


Laura pounces almost immediately, grabbing Stiles by the hand right as Derek declares, “Oh no, you’re not!”  
  


Derek glowers at Laura, who quickly introduces Stiles to Peter. “Peter, this is Stiles Stilinski. He’s the owner and head chef of The Beacon. Remember? The restaurant you wanted to go check out?”  
  


What? Derek feels a dawning sense of deep dread when he sees the realization break on Peter’s face. “The same one which got reviewed by the New York Times? It’s not often that Finstock gives a glowing review to _any_ establishment. He was all but singing praises of your restaurant.”  
  


Now he looks at Stiles, amazed (and a tiny bit unsurprised) that his restaurant got a glowing review. No, Derek isn’t surprised at all. However, he is _seriously_ taken aback when Laura leans in to quietly tell Peter, “He’s the one who made those pastries you liked. You know, those chocolate ones?”  
  


He looks between the pair before looking at Stiles, feeling so very much out of the loop. When the hell did that happen? Peter now looks positively _delighted_ as he takes hold of Stiles’ hand. “I have an excellent idea!” This is going to be so _far_ from excellent. Derek can sense this all the way down to his _soul_. “Stiles, how would you feel about cooking for our restaurant’s opening dinner? All expenses paid!”  
  


“He is _not_ cooking for us!”  
  


“I’m not cooking for him!”  
  


Stiles yells at the same time Derek does and they stare for a moment at each other before Peter swiftly cuts in, “Do you only focus on desserts? You don’t do dinners?”  
  


“He does!” Laura interrupts - evil, evil older sister that she is. “Derek had dinner there just a couple of days ago! Said it was delicious.”  
  


Any argument Derek might have splutters to a sudden death when Stiles confusedly answers, “Uh no. I do dinners too.”  
  


“And I’m assuming everything tastes as heavenly as the pastries?”  
  


Stiles flushes slightly, in clear pleasure of the praise. “Well, yeah. I mean, not to brag. And uh, can I have my hand back?”  
  


He tries to tug his hand back, but Peter can be as persistent and clingy as a leech when he wants. And right now, he’s cranking that up to 11. Peter’s too busy listening to Laura, who holds Stiles in place with both hands on his shoulders. “Derek was telling me just now that Stiles is a _magical_ chef. I don’t think you can get any higher praise, am I right Peter?”  
  


“ _Demonic_ is more like it,” Derek snaps because he’s had it. This day, this week, this whole _month_ has been nothing short of crazy and he’s done. He wants to grab his jacket, walk out and not come back until the universe has decided to stop pulling pranks on him. “He _can’t_ do this!”  
  


Stiles’ eyes flash to his face before turning to Peter, a stubborn edge to his expression as he immediately counters, “I can do this! Just tell me when and where and I’ll be there.”  
  


“You can’t be serious,” Derek begins to point the obvious out, one finger at a time. “You’re talking about replacing a 5 star chef who has over 20 years of experience with someone who’s never had _any_ experience in hosting dinners of this scale! I’m sorry, but that’s nothing short of _crazy_! It can’t be done!”  
  


Out of the corner of his eye, Derek notes the quick look Peter shoots Laura, but misses out on whatever non-verbal reply his sister gives back when Stiles replies back, firm and strong. “I’m _magical_. You said it yourself.”  
  


How is that even a defense? Derek shakes his head, ready to argue when Peter _steps in front of him_ , cutting off his view of Stiles’ defiant eyes. “Can you do this? Tomorrow night?” the older man asks the chef.  
  


Stiles’ eyes flick to Derek’s, turn hard, and return to meet Peter’s. “Yes.”  
  


Derek closes his eyes and turns away, unable to believe what he’s hearing. This is a train wreck in slow motion. He can see the collision that’s going to happen and there’s no stopping it. And then there’s Peter and Laura who seem hell bent on making this disaster reality! “This is a mistake!” he groans, not caring who hears him, but hoping everyone does.  
  


It’s clear he’s being ignored when Peter speaks over him, “Laura, why don’t you take him down to the restaurant? Let Stiles get a feel for everything. Stiles, whatever you need, just tell Laura and we’ll arrange it. We’ll discuss your fee once you return. And Derek. A word.”  
  


The way Peter turns to look at him makes Derek want to run away to Alaska. And here he’d thought his day couldn’t _possibly_ get worse. Clearly he’d been wrong.  
  


And there’s still the dinner to deal with.  
  


His life is officially, _hell_.  
  


He doesn’t exactly throw himself down on the sofa, but he comes close to it. “Why are you sulking?” Peter asks, sitting down with far greater dignity. “I would think you’d be thanking me right about now.”  
  


“Thanking you?” Derek echoes, “Why would I thank you?”  
  


“Because I have no idea where you planned to get a chef in general, much less one as highly acclaimed as Stiles, at this late hour. Unless you were planning on our restaurant opening without food being an option.”  
  


Peter’s sarcastic tone makes Derek want to cringe and scowl at the same time. It’s the way Peter sounds so polite and amused which makes his comment all the more cutting. Not to mention the menu pun. Was that even necessary? Derek looks away, unwilling to look at Peter because he _knows_ he’s going to give something away to his uncle without meaning too. Like the whole story.  
  


“Derek. What the hell has gotten into you? I know things have been stressful in general, but you’ve never been like this before.”  
  


His eyes tick over to the door on their own, remembering the way Stiles hadn’t even turned to look back at him on his way out. It hurts, more than he thought it would. Which is really peculiar, because if Stiles did do some magic or voodoo or whatever on him, then should it hurt this much? Shouldn’t he be wanting to rush after Stiles instead of sulking here in his office?  
  


“Is it Stiles?” Peter’s sudden question has Derek’s guilty eyes flitting over to his uncle’s. He hates the way his minute reaction has Peter’s curiosity turning into out and out glee. “Oh. I see. _He’s_ the boy Cora was talking about. Wait. Wasn’t he the same boy who came to visit you at the restaurant? To return your wallet? The one you almost kissed before I interrupted?”  
  


Damn Peter’s intuitiveness, curiosity _and_ good memory. He nods sullenly and tries not to roll his eyes when Peter declares, “This is an incredible stroke of luck, I hope you realize that.”  
  


“An incredible stroke of bad luck,” Derek mutters darkly.  
  


It’s Peter’s turn to roll his eyes now. “You and your melodramatics. What would you have me do? Go tell Stiles he’s fired just because you’ve got a crush on him and you somehow messed it up?”  
  


“I did _not_ mess this up!”  
  


But Peter’s sharp hand gesture cuts Derek off. “Regardless. The point is Stiles is an excellent chef who happens to be available tomorrow night when some of New York’s finest are expecting to be fed the most delicious meal of their lives. So you will deal. You’re going to put your tux on, smile and make small talk with the investors and ensure that the launch is a success.”  
  


Feeling very much like a child who has been scolded, Derek holds his tongue and nods. He doesn’t say a word as Peter heads out of the office. “Oh and Derek?” Peter smirks from the doorway. “Be sure to shave. We don’t want you looking like a lumberjack.”  
  


Like Derek had said.  
  


_Hell_.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


The journey downstairs is a tiny bit of a blur, mostly because Stiles can’t believe what just happened. He can’t believe what he just agreed to do.  
  


Oh God.  
  


What the _hell_ did he just agree to?  
  


“Stiles?” Laura’s face comes into view. He takes in the way her eyebrows dip down in confusion and just barely stops himself from pointing at them and going ‘I can see the family resemblance.’ “Are you alright?”  
  


“No,” He answers honestly. He’s so far from alright that alright isn’t even on his radar. Alright has crossed  the red line. Alright is Caprica and he’s on Earth. New Earth, meaning there’s a hundred million light years between him and alright. That is how _far away_ from alright he is.  
  


Laura’s hand squeezes his - hard. The tiny jolt of pain yanks Stiles back into the present. “You can do this.” The insistent tone makes Stiles want to argue back, because really, how can she say that? She doesn’t know him or what he’s capable of. “You won’t be alone tomorrow. You’re going to be fine. And whatever you need, just tell me, okay? Other than helping in the kitchen, I’m totally useless when it comes to cooking.”  
  


“Can’t be that bad.”  
  


She smiles at his weak argument, leading him out of the elevator and through the lobby, grip firm around his digits. “Trust me, I’m pretty bad. How many people do you know who can set an egg on fire?”  
  


Stiles stares at her, wondering if she’s joking. But clearly she’s not. It’s only after she’s shoved him into a taxi and given directions to the restaurant three blocks away does Stiles ask, “Are we talking about making scrambled eggs or fried? Because I’ve done that.” He can still remember the look of utter disbelief on Erica’s face when he’d told her he’d set the fried eggs on fire.  
  


Laura’s lips twitch up in one corner. Her wry smile has Stiles relaxing before he knows it. “Poached.”  
  


“ _Poached_?” He parrots back. “How did you-?”  
  


She shrugs and laughs, “I have no idea!” Stiles is still trying to figure this out when Laura pulls a folder out of her bag, flipping it open and going through the papers before holding it out to Stiles. “Okay. So this is the menu that Jean Paul had thought up.”  
  


And just like that, Stiles barely has time to _breathe_ much less give in to the panic attack he knows is hovering around the edges of his psyche. It keeps pressing against his skin, but Stiles _really_ doesn’t have the time for a full out break down. Laura’s whirlwind tour of the restaurant (which looks _completely_ different from the last time he’s been here) and its kitchen has his mind _spinning_.  
  


It’s only when Laura asks, “Hey, are you okay? You look a little pale.” does Stiles realize he’s feeling a little light headed.  
  


“Am I crazy for doing this?” Stiles blurts out, ignoring the wary look the curly haired guy passing by gives him. Any other time and Stiles would make a face back, but right now he’s just trying not to faint.  
  


Laura blinks back. “This being?” She gestures at Stiles to elaborate.  
  


Stiles’ gesture in return is far more uncontrolled and wild when he flaps the menu at Laura. “ _This_! I just wanted to apologize to Derek and convince him to give me - _us_ \- a shot. I didn’t want _this_. I don’t want to be responsible for messing this up for him. I can’t do this Laura!”  
  


“Sure you can.” Laura snatches the paper out of his hands and grabs him by the chin, causing his body to spasm in surprise. “You are the only chef under 30 who made Bobby Finstock use the words ‘spectacular’ and ‘amazing’ in a review in a completely genuine way. He wasn’t sarcastic even _once_ in the whole thing. So what are you afraid of?”  
  


The grip she’s got on his face not only digs into his cheeks,but also causes him to slur his words slightly, “‘dat I’m haffin a few lucky weeks?”  
  


She laughs and pats his cheek, “Then this is the beginning of a long, lucky streak. Now come on, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the kitchen crew.”  
  


Stiles meets the stuffy French guy who is supposed to be his second, something which immediately has Stiles asking, “Can I bring my own sous chef actually? That’ll help me a lot.” He knows if Scott’s there by his side then he’ll pull through. Hell. Stiles is confident he’ll do _better_ than pull through. He’ll _rock_ this.  
  


The scale of what he’s agreed to do makes his head spin like it’s a top. He can’t help but feel intimidated by all the dismissive looks he gets from the other chefs working in the kitchen that is easily the size of his entire restaurant. But at the same time, Stiles really wants to do this. He wants to prove Derek wrong, to show that he’s more than capable of pulling this off. Just remembering the lack of faith Derek had in his skills makes Stiles want to do something drastic.  
  


‘ _Better not,’_ he reminds himself, unclenching his hand slowly. The papers in his hands are now scrunched up from the middle. As Stiles tries to discreetly flatten them straight, he reckons his brain to be right. He’s made enough impulsive decisions for the day.  
  


He forces himself into work mode. He pours over the menu, talks with Francis about how to make the dishes, checks out the ingredients and generally familiarizes himself with the new kitchen. Other than the snooty chefs, it’s a great kitchen. Although he keeps the former opinion to himself when he meets up with Peter again. The business man asks him right off the bat, “How was your visit? I trust you find everything to your liking?”  
  


After several minutes of conversation, he stumbles out of Peter’s office in a daze, feeling like his head is a balloon floating a couple of feet above his shoulders. The guilty feeling of bailing on Scott without warning, however, feels like a heavy lead ball at the pit of his stomach. It feels like the only thing keeping him on the ground. His visit was supposed to be short and quick, not long enough he’d miss lunch service at The Beacon.  
  


‘ _It’ll be okay,’_ Stiles reminds himself as he heads towards the elevators. _‘Scott said he could manage.’_   His best friend had reassured him that he’d hold down the fort while Stiles hammered the details out, sounding both confused and pleased when Stiles had explained what had happened. “You went to apologize to him and wound up getting a job for tomorrow night?” Scott’s skeptical voice had a clear amused edge to it. “Only you, Stiles.”  
  


Hopefully with Allison and Lydia’s help, Scott will do fine. He hopes.  
  


Stiles keeps repeating the mantra to himself, hoping it will soothe the worry crawling through his veins like tiny, itchy ants, but it’s no good. He rocks impatiently on his heels as the elevator dings, ready to get on, go down, catch a cab bac- Oh.  
  


Derek looks up from the floor and right at him, looking worse than he had earlier in the morning. “What are you doing here?” The words nearly trip over themselves in Stiles’ haste to get them out of his mouth.  
  


One thick eyebrow arches up, tone low, but heavy with sarcasm. “I work here, remember?”  
  


With a tiny wince, Stiles mutters, “Right. Stupid question.”  
  


But neither of them make a move to step away. Derek continues to stand in the middle of the elevator and Stiles right in front of him. They stare at each other for so long the elevator doors begin to close. They both reach out to hold the doors open, thankfully reaching for opposite doors instead of the same one. That would have been too awkward.  
  


Stiles takes a step back, making room for Derek to step out. But instead, Derek asks, “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to check the kitchen out.”  
  


“I did, but I had to come back to talk with Peter.” He points back at the office with his thumb, watching the way Derek’s pale eyes follow the gesture before coming back. Stiles notes the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble which is bordering on a full out beard, and wonders how much of that is work stress and how much can be attributed to him.  
  


And immediately he wants to kick himself in the head for assuming that. Scott keeps warning him, even now, about getting a swelled head. “I, uh, I need to get back to the restaurant,” Stiles says feebly, pointing at the elevator interior before sliding in. The doors ding, trying to close, but Derek’s hand keeps them open. He’s tantalizingly close to Derek, who still hasn’t budged an inch and is looking at Stiles like he’s a Sudoku puzzle. “Start getting ready for tomorrow and all.”  
  


Derek nods woodenly, stepping out _finally_ , but keeping his hand on the open door. “Do you have everything you need?”  
  


It’s just small talk, but the very fact that it’s _Derek_ has his tongue waggling before his brain can stop him. “I wouldn’t mind a bit more confidence,” Stiles jokes weakly, half smiling. “Other than that, everything looks good. I was thinking to change the dess-” His voice dies when he realizes the odd flat look in Derek’s eyes isn’t tiredness. It’s caution. Like he’s scared of Stiles. The unwanted epiphany has his voice lowering with his next words. “You’re probably not interested in hearing about that. You probably just want to hear me say everything’s going to go a-okay tomorrow. And it will. I promise.”  
  


“Good.” Derek does an odd little body movement which looks like a cross between a shrug and a nod. “Good.” Stiles isn’t sure how to decipher it. So he takes it as a dismissive gesture and presses the button for the ground floor.  
  


The elevator dings, doors trying once again to close, but once again, Derek holds them wide open. He seems to struggle with something. Stiles foolishly hopes it’s something good. His heart can’t help but lurch forward that maybe, _maybe_ Derek’s seeing his effort for what it is.  
  


“You’re not going to do anything... funny tomorrow. Right?” Derek’s rushed question is akin to a bucket of ice cold water being dumped on his head. Add in the questioning, wary look in his eyes and Stiles actually wants to kick himself.  
  


He should have known. Should have known better than to hope. The bitterness bleeds into his words when he grinds out, “No. Nothing _funny_.” He punches the button for the elevator doors to close, glaring at Derek’s shoes until the doors slide close and then he can glare at the reflection of his sneakers.  
  


What a damned day.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


Despite the fact they’re closed for business the next day, there’s a lot of work to be done to prepare for the night’s dinner. “Don’t forget Queen Shelly!” Stiles reminds Scott as he darts by, trying to chew on a piece of toast at the same time as he puts his shirt on.  
  


Scott stares at his best friend and then at the crab sitting peacefully on the spice rack. “You want to take the crab too?” To say he can’t believe Stiles would be an understatement, because _really_? “I thought you said they had all the ingredients you needed? _And then some_.”  
  


He’s still looking at the crab, who lazily waves a claw at him, but there’s no missing the way Stiles’ chokes on his bite. “We’re not gonna _cook_ her! Jeez, Scott! She’s practically family!” Scott throws his best friend a bemused look. When the hell had _that_ happened? _‘Probably when we named her.’_ Scott nods to himself because that’s probably right. “I want her along for company.”  
  


“Because we all know crabs make such _excellent_ company,” he drawls, gently grabbing the crab and putting her down in one of the larger containers they’re taking along with them. “Let me guess, you couldn’t find someone to look after her tonight?” The crustacean’s eyes slowly turn around to observe it’s new resting place before skittering over to hide under Scott’s folded bandana.  
  


Stiles throws Scott a sheepish smile. “Maybe?”  
  


With a fond little head shake, Scott covers the container and turns towards Stiles. “Okay. We’re all set here. We just need to put the sign out.”  
  


Stiles stuffs the rest of the toast into his mouth, swiping his hand across his cheek to wipe away the tiny blob of jam there before speaking. “I go’f it co’ffered.”  
  


“Chew, swallow, _then_ speak.” He ducks the quick swipe Stiles directs his way, doing one last check of the items they plan to take with them.  
  


As he goes over the list, Scott listens to the soft sounds of chalk hitting the black board. He’s not going to lie - he’s worried about this. Not about the cooking, however. Scott’s pretty sure they’ll knock this out of the park. The test dishes Stiles had made last night after the dinner rush had been _spectacular._ Scott can’t wait to get cooking. Just the thought of all those high class people eating Stiles’ food and asking who made it has him all but bouncing on his feet. Their restaurant is _so_ going to be known as one of the best eateries in New York. Scott can _feel it_ in his bones!  
  


No, the bad feeling comes from Stiles and Derek and their non-relationship.  
  


He knows Stiles is trying to prove some point to Derek (what the point exactly is, Scott’s not sure. Hell, he’s not sure if _Stiles_ is sure about the point either) and honestly? From what Stiles has told him about his last visit, he’s not sure if Derek’s interested in listening. But he keeps his viewpoint to himself, not wanting to discourage Stiles now. One wrong move _now_ and the whole dinner might fall apart. And that is the _last_ thing anyone wants. There’s too much riding on tonight for all parties involved. No _way_ Scott wants to be the person responsible for things going to hell in a handbasket.  
  


“Done!” Stiles chirps from the bar, holding the sign up for Scott to see. Usually the black board displays the daily menu, but today it says ‘Fri + Sat Closed for party uptown!’ with a neat little flourish at the end. “Good enough?”  
  


Scott gives his best friend a thumbs up. “I’ll go put it out and get us a cab. You can start picking the things up. Make sure I didn’t forget anything okay?” It takes less than a minute to put the sign in place and another couple of minutes to hail a cab.  
  


Stiles meanwhile comes out laden down with a few covered trays and containers while muttering, “I think I’m forgetting something.”  
  


He slaps his friend on the shoulder, gently because he doesn’t want any of the trays to tumble down to the ground and spoil their work. “It’s just that last minute feeling.”  
  


“Last minute feeling?”  
  


“You know,” Scott explains as he slips into the cab as well. “That feeling you get when you’re rushing out the door and think you’ve forgotten something, but actually haven’t. It’s just paranoia, nothing more.”  
  


Stiles eyes him for a long moment, weighing his words before quickly uncovering the trays to quadruple check. In fact, he _keeps_ checking and re-checking his lists the entire drive over to the restaurant.  
  


As they pull up outside the building, Scott lets out an awed, “Whoa.” From just the outside he can tell it’s a pretty classy restaurant. Four, fairly tall potted trees line the way to the grand double doors, wooden and polished to a high gleam. Scott doesn’t know the proper word for it but a long metal shade covers not only the entrance, but two windows on either side as well. The restaurant’s name is featured on the sides of the shade and on the floor mat placed before the doors.  
  


“Triskele?” Scott questions aloud, nodding his thanks to the uniformed man holding the door open for them. “Pretty weird name for a fancy place. You know what it means?”  
  


Stiles grunts from behind the trays, “How would I know? I’m just here to cook,” ignoring the fancy lobby and walking straight through towards the kitchens. Scott however, is stuck in the lobby/bar, near the bar top. He _knows_ his mouth has fallen open, but he’s _never_ been inside such a grand looking place. It doesn’t even feel like a restaurant to him. It’s more like a really, _really_ fancy house. Or maybe a palace.  
  


He takes a hesitant step forward, staring at one of the two large dining rooms. The contrast between the pale walls and dark furniture is amazing. Add in the splash of color through the many floral arrangements and paintings placed strategically around the room and it’s just awe inspiring. And Scott is a more than a little in love with the chandeliers. The largest one, installed in the middle of the dining room, has to be over 6 feet across in length. Two perfect circles, the smaller one nestled against the larger.  
  


Scott takes his time getting to the kitchens, pausing every so often to take in one detail after another. He gapes at the high archways and fancy ceiling, wondering how much money was put into the decor. He’s examining the stunning dining ware when Stiles comes back to forcibly drag him into the kitchen.  
  


Which leads to a whole new level of amazement. “Dude,” Scott breathes out in slow, awed delight. “This place has _everything_.” Not only is everything shiny and new, everything looks top of the line as well. Scott feels his fingers _itch_ when he catches sight of the food processor one of the chefs is using, catching himself just in time to shoot Stiles a grin. “This is gonna be great!”  
  


“I’m glad you have more faith than I do,” his friend drawls, lightly shoving him forward toward an open counter. “Just put the stuff down here. And put your jacket on so we can get started.”  
  


Scott quickly takes his button down off, rolling it up and shoving it into his bag before pulling out his white chef jacket. As he buttons it up, he quickly surveys the kitchen. Stiles had drawn him a quick map last night, explaining where everything was. Scott’s grateful for it because now he doesn’t feel like a stranger in the kitchen.  
  


_‘Well,’_ he thinks as he catches the distrustful look a passing chef gives him and his tattooed arm, _‘almost. I wonder if they’re all french.’_ Scott has finished buttoning up his jacket and is busy rolling the sleeves up when Stiles lets out a strangled, “Oh _crap.”_  
  


“What is it?” He asks, fingers holding onto his half rolled sleeve.  
  


Stiles nearly has his head inside his bag, yelling, “I _told_ you I thought I had forgotten something! I didn’t bring my plaid neckerchief!”  
  


With a slight frown, Scott asks, “Your mom’s neckerchief, right?”  
  


“Yes!” Stiles groans, opening the zip as wide as it went before tearing through the contents of the bag. “My _lucky_ neckerchief! Everything good started happening after I found the damn thing! I can’t do this without it! I know!” Scott raises a bland eyebrow at the crazy look his best friend throwing him. “If you go back now, you can grab it from the restaurant and come back in time to help!”  
  


Scott slowly finishes rolling his sleeves up, slaps both hands on Stiles’ shoulders and firmly tells him, “I don’t think so.”  
  


“But..but...but...” Stiles splutters, shoes squeaking against the floor in protest to Scott dragging him away from their stuff. “How _else_ do you explain the way my cooking suddenly got better, huh? If it wasn’t her favorite neckerchief, then what was it?”  
  


Scott rolls his eyes when Stiles leans back to _cling to the counter_ , shaking his head in disapproval. Honestly. Some days you’d think Stiles was still a teenager. “Simple, _dorkus_. You _wanted_ your cooking to be good, and that’s how you got good. You knew the technique ,but kept overthinking it. And the day you stopped that and focused just on making something delicious instead of worrying about how to make it right part, everything just _clicked_. It’s all you Stiles! Not your mom’s neckerchief.”  
  


He gives Stiles a tiny shake a warm smile, hoping it’ll soothe the nerves that are all but pouring off his best friend in waves. “You can do this,” Scott reminds him in a gentler tone. “And I’m gonna be here right by your side. Me _and_ Shelly.”  
  


Stiles grins weakly at that, shoulders sagging in relief and gratitude before he mumbles, “I’m just scared of messing this up for Derek.”  
  


The quiet admission has Scott stepping forward to give Stiles a quick hug. “You won’t so long as you make the food just like you did last night. Once Derek sees how great you do tonight, he’ll want to talk to you.”  
  


“You really think so?”  
  


Stiles’ meek question is _so_ unlike him, Scott is tempted to find Derek Hale right now and thwack him on the head with a spoon. “I know so.” He reassures Stiles with another grin. “Now come on! Lets get this show on the road. First off, introduce me to the rest of the group. And keep an eye on Shelly. We don’t want someone thinking she’s an ingredient for some dish.”  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


They are literally an hour away from opening their doors to New York’s elite and Derek’s mind is flying in a hundred directions at the same time. It’s too late to make any changes now, but that’s not stopping him from worrying.  
  


As he slips into the tuxedo Laura’s shoved at him, he frantically tries to figure out if he’s forgotten or missed something. And repeatedly he tells himself that if he’s forgotten or missed something, there’s nothing to be done about it. All he can do now is just hope everything goes according to plan.  
  


And also hope that Stiles won’t do anything weird with his cooking. Like make something that’ll make people start floating off their chairs. He can’t even _begin_ to imagine the scathing review Finstock would write if something was to go wrong tonight.  
  


With a tired moan, Derek lets go of the bowtie he’s been trying to do up and prays, “ _Please_ let everything go well tonight.”  
  


“Who are you talking to?” Cora’s query makes Derek jump. He turns to stare at the bathroom door, wondering when his younger sister came into his office and why he hadn’t heard her. “You know talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity, right?”  
  


“It’s not talking to yourself if you’re praying,” he retorts, going back to the bowtie which stubbornly refuses to knot. With an irritated growl, Derek gives up and steps out of the small bathroom. He gestures at the scrap of cloth before giving Cora a pleading look. “Can you please?”  
  


Cora smiles, red lips curling into a wicked amused smile even as she gestures for Derek to step closer. “Since when are _you_ the praying kind?” she teases, nimble fingers working swift and sure.  
  


“Since Peter hired Stiles to cook tonight.” Derek sighs, not wanting to think about that any more than he has too. Which, unfortunately, is going to be the theme for the night. With a small shake of his head, he takes in Cora’s dress and smiles faintly. “You look nice.”  
  


She looks down at the red dress before smoothing the material down her sides. It’s plain silk, but it shimmers faintly under the lights, stopping a few inches above her knees. And the fresh red color makes her skin glow and dark hair look more black where it’s swept up in a neat do. “Don’t I always,” she teases, adjusting the single thick bracelet on her wrist before patting Derek’s shoulders. “You look pretty handsome, too.”  
  


Derek glances down at himself and shrugs lightly. It’s just a tux. Looking good is the least of his concerns tonight. He’ll be too busy frowning at the waiters, silently telling them to stand straighter and speak with more politeness while judging the food and the decor. Derek is 85 percent certain he’s going to develop an ulcer tonight. Maybe he ought to pack some antacids in his pocket. Just in case.  
  


He’s checking the bow tie, wincing when Cora lightly slaps his hands away with a stern, “Don’t do that! You’ll make it crooked!” when someone knocks on the door.  
  


Laura steps in, looking like a vision in her ivory dress that sparkles and glitters with every move. “Let’s get a move on, the car’s here.” Her eyes quickly sweep over her siblings, smiling in approval. “You both look good. Now let’s go. You know Peter wants to get there early to make sure everything’s going according to plan.”  
  


Derek allows himself to be herded out, locking the door behind him before he follows Cora and Laura to the elevator. From the elevator to the car they’ve rented for the occasion, Derek _doesn’t_ think about Stiles. He doesn’t think about Stiles on the whole drive over either. And he _definitely_ doesn’t twitch when Peter lightly comments, “I’m looking forward to the dinner service. Francis seems to hate Stiles, which I’m sure means he’s intimidated or envious of Stiles’ talent. In any case, dinner is going to be interesting.”  
  


He hopes not. Derek is _praying_ for dinner not to be interesting. He just wants everything to go off without a hitch, is that too much to ask? After all the hard work he’s put into this, all Derek wants is for everything to go according to his plans. He wants to arrive before time, do a quick sweep with his team to make sure everything’s ready, greet and make small talk with their guests and enjoy the food.  
  


Then again, Derek grimaces as he presses a hand to his stomach. Given how nervous he feels, maybe eating is out of the question for tonight. Where other people are stress eaters, Derek stops eating when he’s stressed. He prefers to go work out instead of raid the fridge. And right now? He _definitely_ feels like taking a run. Somewhere far, far away from New York. Maybe he could pull a Forrest Gump and run all the way to California.  
  


Instead he forces himself to take a deep breath, pulls his phone out and checks in with Isaac and Boyd. They’re already at the restaurant, probably making sure the wait staff know their duties backwards and forward. And knowing Isaac, he’ll probably be trying to sneak something to eat from the kitchen staff because he’ll have forgotten to eat anything. Derek recalls once again that Stiles is working in the kitchen, and then wonders if Boyd knows this. Which immediately makes him wonder how Boyd had come into possession of the pastries Derek had found in the break room. Derek makes a mental note to ask Boyd this before flicking his finger across his screen, pulling a new conversation window open to Isaac. He’s just started texting him a new set of instructions when the car pulls up to the restaurant.  
  


“Everything looks good,” Laura notes, voice and smile showing her clear approval. Peter doesn’t say anything and critically eyes the valet’s uniform before telling him to stand straighter. Cora rolls her eyes and leads them, black heels clicking against the floor. He follows after her, intent on finding Isaac and telling him the last minute instructions himself rather than through text.  
  


Time feels like water, flowing smooth and quick from jug to glass. One minute Derek is frantically making sure the tables are set perfectly and the next he’s standing near the entrance, introducing Peter to one party after another. They’ve invited over a hundred people tonight, all of them considered to be the creme de la creme of the culinary circles. Which, unfortunately, means they’ve also invited Bobby Finstock.  
  


It’s a challenge not to cringe when the man bellows, “Hale!” from the doorway, like he’s standing in the middle of a carnival instead of uptown New York. Derek grins politely, accepting the hand Finstock is holding out for him. Finstock gives it a firm shake, eyes already moving away to take in the ambience and decor. “I gotta say, this place is a lot swankier than I thought it’d be.”  
  


“I told you what kind of market we’re trying to cater here, Mr. Finstock. Nothing but the best for New York’s elite,” Derek jokes, gesturing towards Peter. “Bobby Finstock, I’d like you to meet my uncle, Peter Hale. Uncle Peter, you know Bobby Finstock.”  
  


Finstock immediately shakes Peter’s hand, with less enthusiasm and vigor than he had Derek’s. “Peter Hale. Nice to finally put a name to all the stories.”  
  


“Stories?” Peter asks.  
  


Oh no. Finstock isn’t referring to what Derek _thinks_ he’s referring too.  
  


“Oh, yeah.” Finstock nods, “I keep reading about you in the tabloids, but they never get a good enough picture of you when you’re coming out of any actress’ house. How do you do that? Do you have some kind of built-in paparazzi radar? ‘Cause I’m telling you, if that’s a skill, you gotta teach me it. I’ve had enough with those mosquitos hanging around me. If there was some way I could learn to avoid them, I’d learn that faster than you can teach a dog how to sing.”  
  


Derek’s known Bobby Finstock for roughly over a year, and despite this, he’s still never gotten the hang of his unique brand of... quirkiness. He stares at Finstock, wondering how a man who looks like he raked a gelled hand through his already messy hair, threw a blazer on on top of his tee-shirt and jeans and considered it appropriate attire for tonight (especially when the invitation had _said_ black tie), is considered one of America’s most honest, toughest and finicky food critics.  
  


Where Derek is taken aback by Finstock’s, well, Finstock-ness, Peter smoothly rolls with the punches and answers, “It’s a developed skill. After so many years and an aversion for standing in the limelight, you develop such talents. We can talk about it later if you’d like.”  
  


“Fantastic!” Finstock all but bellows, giving Peter’s shoulder a hearty smack. He immediately turns to give Derek a stern look. “So what’s this I hear about you guys hiring Jean Paul for tonight. How the hell did you pull that off? I’ve heard that guy’s about as easy to work with as my mother.”  
  


How the hell is he supposed to answer that? No way he can admit the truth. He can imagine the damned fuss Finstock would make if he found out their 5 star chef quit on them just 24 hours ago and the person working in the kitchen right now is a essentially a nobody. Yeah, Derek can’t imagine _that_ going well for them. So instead he smirks, gestures at Boyd to step up. “It wasn’t easy, but we managed.”  
  


“You and your cryptic ways,” the other man complains. “I swear it won’t kill you to be more open, Hale. Who the hell is this big guy?” Finstock looks Boyd over, eyes lingering on the suited man’s shoulders and biceps before continuing without a hitch, “And where the hell were you when I needed guys on my lacrosse team?”  
  


Both of Boyd’s eyebrows slowly rise. Derek’s not sure if it’s surprise or plain old disbelief. “Excuse me?”  
  


“In ‘09! I used to be a high school coach back in the day and our lacrosse team was _shit_. I bet if we had someone like you and Hale, we’d have won every game. But instead I had to deal with snot nosed brats who kept tripping over their own feet.” Finstock shakes his head.  
  


Boyd turns to give him a look that Derek has long since learned means, ‘Is this guy for real?’  
  


With a wry expression, Derek shrugs back in a ‘what can you do?’ manner. “Boyd, show Mr. Finstock to his seat.” Hopefully Finstock will be happy at his table, seated next to Deaton, an old family friend. Sure, Peter and his sisters are at the same table but hopefully Deaton will be a calming influence on them all. Everyone in the family knows better than to misbehave in front of Deaton. He goes straight to their mother, who _immediately_ comes down on the guilty party like a thunderbolt from the skies. So, _hopefully,_ Finstock won’t ruffle anyone’s feathers too much and no one will retaliate in response. If that happens, and Deaton can’t break it up, it will lead to a pissed off Finstock. Which will no doubt lead to a _loud_ , albeit confusing, speech from Finstock.  
  


His stomach twists in agony at the thought, making his hand wander into his pants pocket to grab the small bottle of antacids. Discreetly he pulls one out and chews on it.  
  


The bottle is half empty when he starts, and the more he hears people say ‘I’m looking forward to seeing what Jean Paul is cooking for us,” the more his stomach gurgles and twists, making him slip another tablet under his tongue. He’s also glad the waiters have been given strict instructions to keep all alcoholic drinks away from him (and the rest of the management, but especially Peter. He’s a sarcastic drunk. Makes for terrible impressions at parties) or else Derek is _certain_ , he’d be rip roaring drunk.  
  


The sound of pleasant chatter fills the dining room. Derek takes a moment to admire how well everything’s come together, leaning over to whisper to Cora, “Everything looks great.”  
  


She smirks with pride, raising her champagne glass at him before being whisked away by a frazzled looking Isaac. “Minor emergency at the front desk. No need to panic,” he shoots at Derek before dragging Cora away.  
  


He stares at the couple’s back, wondering what kind of an emergency has happened. Laura slides up next to him, a sparkling crystal glass in her hand as well. He eyes it enviously, as a result of which he misses her words. “Say again?”  
  


Laura points in the direction to which Cora and Isaac have left. “I said those two just went to make out in the coat room.” Derek almost chokes on his spit, something which makes Laura snigger in delight. “You didn’t _know_? Oh, baby brother, you are _so_ oblivious. It’s kind of cute. Oh, speaking of! Have you checked in with the kitchen yet?”  
  


Now he _desperately_ craves some alcohol. It would certainly lessen the sting of guilt, hurt and confusion that’s been churning around in his gut since yesterday after he’d told Stiles he didn’t know how he felt. Typically Derek uses work to avoid and ignore his few romantic problems. But now that work and romance has collided? He feels like he doesn’t have any place to go to. And add to that his own confusion...  
  


He shakes his head. “Not yet. I wanted to make sure I was there with Peter at the front.”  
  


It’s a flimsy lie at best, but blessedly, Laura doesn’t call him out on it. No, no. She does something worse. “Well,” she drawls, putting her empty glass down on a passing waiter’s tray before neatly grabbing two glasses. One she keeps, the other she holds out for Derek. “Now that Boyd’s taken over for you and you’re already inside, I think it’s about time you went and checked. I’ll even come along for moral support.”  
  


Derek weighs the seriousness of her words before realizing she means it. He brings the glass up and downs it in one go. “That’s the spirit.” He can _hear_ the eye roll from Laura in those three words. “Now come on. Lets get this over with.”  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


There is a generally held concept that Frenchmen in general are haughty and snobbish, but Scott’s not one to believe in stereotypes, okay? He tries not to judge people on their appearance or where they come from. But these guys? The other chefs who they’re working with? They are snobbish like _whoa_.  
  


And they don’t realize he half-knows French, so he’s actually understanding half the things they’re saying about him and Stiles. All of which he keeps to himself, because Stiles doesn’t need any more pressure. It had been hard enough convincing Stiles he didn’t need his mom’s neckerchief to make the dinner a success (Scott had to stop his friend from sneaking out the kitchen _twice_ ), so telling him that the other chefs think Stiles is going to fail pretty badly is _completely_ out of the question.  
  


Instead, Scott works on the stove next to Stiles like they do back at their restaurant, and helps keep him focused. He glares at Francis when he haughtily asks Stiles for instructions, sniggers behind a hand when Shelly nips at the man’s hand when it lands near her claws, and pokes Stiles with the bottle of Dom Perignon when he asks Scott to pass him the alcohol.  
  


“Can we use that?” Stiles asks, looking around frantically like Scott’s holding a bag full of stolen money instead of a bottle of champagne. “This stuff is _crazy_ expensive! Are you sure we’re even allowed to touch it?”  
  


Rolling his eyes at Stiles’ theatrics, Scott jiggles the bottle in his direction.“We’re uptown. They _expect_ expensive, you idiot. Also, this is the best, and you want the best, so use it!” The bottle is already open, the sound of liquid gently sloshing around hiding under the sizzle of the meat Stiles is frying on the stove.  
  


Stiles shoots a furtive look around him, eyes gleaming when he accepts the bottle. “Just a bit won’t hurt, right?”  
  


“I think you need to take a sip of that and calm your nerves down, ” Scott jokes, leaning back as the liquid hits the hot pan. As soon as Stiles tips the pan, the alcohol catches fire. Delicate flames lick their way around the meat as Scott accepts the bottle back. Before he puts it down, Scott takes a quick sip of the alcohol and sighs. “That is _good_ stuff. You should try it.”  
  


“Well.... Just a sip.” Scott laughs as he exchanges places with Stiles, picking up the metal tongs to turn the frying meat over.  
  


He hears Stiles take a big gulp of the champagne, sighing at the end. “Imagine being rich enough to have this every night. That’d be the life.” Scott makes an agreeing noise, smiling as he imagines sitting at the end of a long table with Allison on his right, toasting each other with a tall glass of Dom Perignon. _‘I wonder how much a bottle costs. Maybe I could get one for our anniversary..._ ’  
  


“Okay, take that off,” Stiles directs at him before turning around to yell, “Francis? We’re ready for the truffles!”  
  


Once the truffle appetizers have been served, there’s the duck main course (with a few vegan options for certain guests) to make and then dessert. They were almost a third of the way done! Scott tilts the pan away from him, holding the meat on the opposite side so that the grease and alcohol can drain away.  
  


So far, so good, Scott internally praises them both. Despite the haughty, unfriendly nature of the kitchen staff, they are all _really_ good at their work. Even Francis was a wicked good chef. Except he keeps treating and talking to them like they are beneath him. Which, technically, they kind of are. They had only been working in their own restaurant for 5 years compared with Francis who had 10 years experience under Jean Paul _alone_.  
  


But he’s still a bit of an ass.  
  


“There are no truffles.”  
  


The man’s heavily accented voice carries cool and easy over the din of the kitchen, causing Stiles to freeze next to Scott. For his part, Scott does a slow , incredulous head turn. “What?” he asks slowly.  
  


Francis does not look up from the nearby counter, head down as he examines the puff pastry which is supposed to be the base of the appetizers. “No truffles,” he repeats slowly, like he’s talking to children.  
  


Stiles’ shoes squeak against the floor, hands slapping loudly against the marble as he runs over to stand across from him and ask, “ _How_ can there be no truffles? I saw them yesterday. We can’t make a truffles dish without _truffles_!”  
  


Scott still standing there, blinking in shock because no. Seriously. _How_ can there be no truffles? The whole dish _centers_ around the stupid truffles! If there are no truffles, then there is no dish!  
  


But Francis clearly doesn’t care for their dilemma, picking another pastry up to examine it before placing it delicately back on the plate and wiping his hands clean. “Monsieur Jean personally hand picks the truffles for his dishes. So naturally, he returned to take them. Only this morning.”  
  


Stiles looks two breathes away from either punching Francis or having a panic attack when he yells, “How the hell do you expect me to make truffle slippers _without truffles_?”  
  


“But could you make them _with_ truffles?” Francis smirks.  
  


Smacking the pan down, Scott is ready to walk over and give the man a good talking too when the kitchen’s double doors open. For a split second, almost every head in the kitchen turns to watch the Hale siblings sweep into the chrome and metal kitchen. Stiles’ face goes from flushed to pale when Derek asks, “How is everything going Francis?”  
  


Oh crap. This could be bad, especially given the incredibly fake smile the guy is giving the Hales.  
  


“On nage dans une flaque de merde!”[1]  
  


Scott frowns at Francis, wondering if he just said what he _thinks_ the guy said. Similarly, Stiles is giving the chef a suspicious look of his own. Thankfully, it looks like the Hales have no idea Francis said something about them swimming in shit. A fact which becomes apparent when Laura beams and declares, “Great! Carry on!”  
  


He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry when he catches Laura hurriedly asking Derek, “What did the French guy just say?” and Derek mutters, “Everything’s fine.”  
  


If only.  
  


_If. only_.  
  


And was it his imagination or did Derek just avoid looking at Stiles? He glances over at Stiles, who turns before Scott can gauge his expression and mood. That is not good. When he notices the way Stiles’ hands shake when he tries to pull the sauce pot over, Scott mutters, “Definitely not good.”  
  


Francis makes an odd noise which he sounds too close to a pleased, but muffled chuckle, prompting Scott to pick the nearest object up (a whisk, unfortunately for him) and hold it out threateningly. The circular wires wiggle, Francis raises an amused eyebrow at Scott and Scott growls, “I’m watching you.” He takes a step back, eyes locked on Francis so that he can wordlessly tell the guy not to mess with them.  
  


With a small roll of his eyes, the man goes back to work. Scott puts the whisk down, heart heavy as he wonders how they’re going to fix this. There’s entirely too much on the line tonight and to be faced with _this_ kind of a problem _right before_ dinner is served...  
  


He blink at the empty counter where Stiles had been standing. Where did he go? His hand lands on a wet spot, making Scott frown at the tiny drops of water leading up to the sauce pot. There’s two on the counter, three more going up to the pot and it looks like one landed in the sauce. Which has thickened nicely, finally changed from its pale pink color to a deeper, rose pink tone.  
  


These aren’t.  
  


Oh no.  
  


Scott frantically looks around the kitchen, wondering where Stiles has gone to hide. There’s only so many places where his friend can actually hide. Or, there’s really only _two_ places - the meat locker or the pantry. And he finds Stiles sitting in the corner next to a giant sack of potatoes with his face buried in his arms and his knees up. “Stiles?” he asks softly, kneeling in front of Stiles. The way Stiles is shaking doesn’t bode well. Oh God, is Stiles having a panic attack?  
  


“Stiles? Talk to me please.” His hand hovers on top of Stiles’ arm, not wanting to touch him, because Stiles’ hates that when he’s in the middle of an attack. “Do you want me to get you something? Water maybe?”  
  


Stiles keeps his face hidden when he shakes his head, body still trembling like a leaf. “Do you want to breathe with me?” Scott asks once again, in the same soft voice. This time his friend nods. “Okay, breathe in with me. And out.” They repeat the slow inhales and longer exhales for a many long minutes before Stiles’ finally stops shaking.  
  


When he looks up, his eyes are red rimmed and cheeks wet with smeared tears. But he’s smiling, albeit weakly. “Thanks.”  
  


Scott smiles back, “Any time.” He shifts in place, knees throbbing in hurt due to how long he’s been kneeling on the cold hard floor. Stiles lowers his knees, spreading his legs out straight before lightly knocking his head back against a box filled with Portobello mushrooms. He follows Stiles’ example, crawling forward so that they sit side by side with their legs stretched out before them.  
  


“So?” Scott asks after a while. “What do you wanna do?”  
  


Out of the corner of his eye he sees Stiles swipe the inside of his elbow over his face before sighing. “I don’t know. We can’t make truffle slippers without truffles. That’s like trying to make pancakes without flour.”  
  


Not exactly the way he would have put it, but that doesn’t mean that Stiles is wrong. With a long sigh, Scott leans his head back and muses, “Okay. So, what do you do when you don’t have flour to make pancakes?”  
  


Stiles continues to gently knock his head against the Portobello’s, frowning faintly at the ajar door before declaring,  “We gotta change the menu.”  
  


“Okay,” he replies easily, slapping his hands against his thighs before pushing himself up to his feet. Scott turns to hold his hand out for Stiles, helping him up as well, before grinning and lightly shaking his friend through the grip. “We can do this.”  
  


Exhaling slowly, Stiles nods and smiles. “Good thing they didn’t print the menu out, right?”  
  


Scott laughs too high because of the mix of nerves and relief zinging through him like little shots of electricity. “Totally!”  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


When the waiters begin to come out with the appetizers, Derek can _see_ the mood of the party shifting. Most conversations pause, many words turning into quiet, but delighted little exclamations of delight as dinner is served. For the first time this night, it becomes easy to hear the tune the pianist is playing from the raised stage. Derek quietly thanks the waitress, frowning slightly when he notes the dish.  
  


_‘Figs?_ ’ he wonders, checking the other’s plates. The appetizers were supposed to be a truffle dish. Not this equally delicate and delectable looking item. Everything about it looks similar to the dish Jean Paul had initially proposed, right down to the lovely pink sauce on the figs except there’ the problem. The figs. They’re supposed to be truffles. Derek remembers this _very_ clearly since he’d accompanied Jean Paul on that shopping trip. He remembers listening to the man solemnly explain how truffles were the greatest food that ever existed and wanting to choke Peter for _insisting_ he accompany Jean Paul to make sure he was happy.  
  


Laura leans over to whisper, “I thought we were gonna have truffles for the opening?”  
  


“Figs, huh.” Finstock says loudly, causing Derek to freeze and turn his attention towards the critic. This is it, he sweats in his seat, the tiny urge to eat disappearing in a heartbeat. Make or break time. “That’s new for Jean Paul. About time.”  
  


Is that good or bad? Derek is certain he’s staring at Finstock, praying for the man to continue his explanation, but Finstock is more interested in examining the dish from every angle first. He takes in every last minute detail. “Did he talk about why he’s using the fig?” Finstock asks, sharp eyes catching Derek’s.  
  


Derek shakes his head. Finstock grunts, finally picking up his fork and knife. “Whatever reason, it’s about time that old bat reinvented himself. The way he keeps going on about truffles makes me want to kill myself or tell him to marry a truffle farmer.”  
  


Derek smiles weakly at the jab, fingers slipping into his pocket to finger the almost empty bottle of antacids. Should he take one now? There’s only three more left. But there’s still the main course and dessert left. And no doubt some of their guests will want to stay on for drinks and more business oriented talk.  
  


Everyone around them is busy digging into the food. The delicate sound of metal cutlery clinking together with heavy porcelain is a sound Derek generally enjoys. It’s a warm sound to him. Coupled with the buzz of conversation mingling with the soft piano music, it all speaks of people having a good evening at a nice restaurant. But given that this is his work, his effort being judged by all these people, the usually comforting sounds only make his stomach clench hard in tension.  
  


“You’re not gonna eat?” Cora quietly asks from his left.  
  


Derek gives him a weary look and head shake. “Too nervous to eat.” That said, he pushes himself out of his seat and decides to do a quick round. Just to see how everyone else is reacting to the food. At least the tables around him seem to like it. He overhears quite a few people expressing their delight. Many more commenting on fig’s usage being ‘unique,’ ‘inspirational’ etc. Derek closes his eyes in quiet relief when he overhears Mrs. Martin tell her husband, “I’m not fond of figs, but with the pastry it tastes incredible!”  
  


_‘We’re gonna make it,_ ’ Derek thinks, slipping between tables with light feet. _‘This is going to work...’_  
  


He’s just about ready to click his heels when he feels his phone vibrating in his pocket. Derek pulls the device out, wondering who is calling. He smiles at the picture on the screen, his parents beaming up at him, and accepts the call. “Mom, hi. Can you hold just a minute?”  
  


Derek quickly makes his way outside, nodding briefly at the valets before saying, “Mom? Still there?”  
  


All of his family had gotten an invitation to attend the opening, but due to various circumstances back home in California, no one had flown out to New York. His dad was in week three of his broken leg (and complaining bitterly of the itch he couldn’t reach right under his kneecap). His mom hadn’t been able to get the few days off from her firm, resources stretched enough as they were thanks to many employees being out with the bad flu going around. His older brother’s son was one of the victims to the aforementioned virus. And his youngest sister kept hissing at him for setting the opening right in the middle of her mid terms.  
  


When his mom asks him how it’s going (and whether or not Peter is behaving), Derek smiles shakily. He’s ready to fall down in relief when he tells her it’s going well. He tells her how a good crowd has shown up and they all seem to be enjoying themselves. “We just served the first course,” Derek tells her, stepping back into the lobby to check. He’s not paranoid, he just... wants to see the fruits of his labor. Just a peek while he talks with his mom.  
  


Which is the exact moment the universe decides to pull the rug out from under his feet just to see him fall flat on his face.  
  


Derek stares in horror at the sight before him. _Everyone_ in the large room is _crying_! Including his family! Even _Finstock_! The man has his napkin pressed against his eyes, shoulders shaking as he clearly bawls. Next to him, Peter looks as downcast as Derek has ever seen him, cutting up a small bite of the fig before transferring it into his mouth. Laura is sniffling into her wine while Cora scowls through her tears, like she can force them back through the sheer force of her anger.  
  


And to his everlasting confusion? People keep praising the food through their sobs.  
  


Finstock pulls his napkin away, fat tears dripping out of his red rimmed eyes. “The foie gras under the fig just melts in the mouth. This is _fantastic_! Never thought Jean Paul had it in him to make something so delicate.” He tries to catch the tears before they fall off his cheeks, but his napkin is too late.  
  


_This_ is the _exact_ kind of weirdness Derek had been worried about. Derek tries not to stop and stare at the Mayor of New York sobbing into his plate, crying about his childhood dreams of becoming a chef of this caliber.  
  


Oh, God. Is that? Is even _Isaac_ crying? And Boyd and his girlfriend, Erica, too? Is there a _single person_ who isn’t crying right now? Amazingly, the tears are _not_ stopping people from eating. There’s even a few who are crying while eating! A few people are excusing themselves and heading to the bathrooms. Derek catches sight of the Martins’ younger daughter weave her way through the tables, a tissue under her eyes and thinks, he’s done.  
  


From a distance Derek hears the teeny voice of his mother asking through the phone, “Derek? Are you still there? Hello?”  
  


“I’m gonna call you back,” he answers back on auto-pilot, ending the call before deciding he needs to have a talk with Stiles. A firm talking too, which involves a final goodbye. He’s going to tell Stiles to stop whatever he’s doing in his weird attempt to win him over, or whatever the hell it is he’s doing, and to go home. To forget about Derek. Because Derek wants to forget about Stiles.  
  


He wants to forget about the way Stiles smiles, the focused look when he’s cooking, the way he throws his head back in his loud, short laugh. Derek especially wants to forget the softness of Stiles’ lips, the feel of his long fingers against Derek’s skin, the strength he hides under his t-shirts. Derek never wanted to know the firmness of Stiles’ arms, the smoothness of his skin or the sharp nip of his teeth against his own lips.  
  


Okay, maybe that’s going to be a lot harder than he’s making it out to be.  
  


Derek pauses mid-stride when he catches Peter’s eye, warily making his way over to the table when Peter gestures at him to approach. This is bad. This is very, _very_ bad. He’d imagining a hundred cutting and incredibly sarcastic comments Peter might say to him and _none of them_ , throw Derek off as much as his _actual_ words.  
  


“Give my compliments to Stiles if you’re going to the kitchens.”  
  


Derek stares incredulously at his uncle, wondering if he misheard his quiet whisper. “You want me... to go to the kitchen... and tell Stiles... you like the food?” He looks up to make sure Finstock isn’t listening before hissing, “Are you _crazy_? We should be kicking him out of the kitchen! Not _praising_ him!”  
  


_That_ is loud enough to get Finstock’s attention. He thinks so, anyways. Either Finstock heard him or he... yeah, no. He’s just honking his nose with a hanky before loudly declaring, “This sauce is delicious!” Okay then.  
  


Peter points at Finstock with his knife, sniffing, “See? Everything is fine.”  
  


The urge to sweep his arm out, gesturing at the restaurant as a whole is very large, but Derek’s got the sneaky suspicion Peter might use it to call him ‘our overdramatic der-bear’ again. So instead he digs his fingers into the back of his uncle’s seat, lowly snapping, “We _just_ served the appetizers and _everyone_ is _crying_! How is that fine? ”  
  


With an almost delicate gesture, Peter answers, “The food is incredible and without fault! Look around you. It’s cathartic to let our emotions out in the form of tears. I know that might be hard for you to understand, with your tendency to bottle your emotions and turn towards anger instead. Everyone enjoys a good cry, _obviously_.”  
  


Derek glances over the room and it’s sobbing occupants before sarcastically muttering, “ _Obviously_.”  
  


The only thing obvious here is that Stiles is the one responsible for this particular brand of nuttiness. And Derek needs to go talk to him, convince him to stop whatever he’s done before things get worse. For all he knows, people are going to start floating off their chairs by the time the main course shows up. Which should be any minute now.  
  


Derek hurries to the kitchen, intent on stopping any potential disasters from happening.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


The main course is just about ready to go out. Stiles checks a passing plate one last time, critically eyeing the thinly sliced duck, adjusting the asparagus while hoping the waiter will balance the plate properly so that what Stiles has affectionately dubbed ‘the tower of crunchy, tasty and good looking food’ doesn’t tip and spill. It’s a damned good looking plate if he says so himself.  
  


Before passing it on to Scott, Stiles gestures at him to show the others how the dish it supposed to look. “Make sure they don’t over do the chives, okay?” Stiles reminds his friend, pointing at the slight ‘dusting’ of finely chopped chives decorating the small pile balanced on top of a bed of asparagus and the space beside it. “And the sauce! They can’t put too much of it or else it’s gonna throw off the taste of the duck!”  
  


Scott rolls his eyes good naturedly. “I got it the first time you told me, Stiles. Get started on the dessert already. The sooner you’re done with that, the sooner we get to leave.”  
  


“And the sooner we can get drunk.” Stiles salutes his best friend with two fingers and a grin. He turns back to the stove with a satisfied smile, cracking his knuckles as he considers where to start dessert. _‘More like jump in,’_ he thinks delightedly, because the upside of working with a big team like this? Delegation baby. One word and he can have a highly trained professional jumping in and following his _precise_ instructions. And best of all? He can _totally_ jump back in and take over when he feels like. Stiles wonders if this is what being a king feels like. Probably not actually, but all this power sure feels damn good!  
  


The usual calm feeling he gets while cooking swells into a sweeter feeling at the realization they’re almost done. Rocky start aside, Stiles thinks he’s doing _great_. No. You know what? He’s doing _excellently_. He has overcome the odds and come out triumphant! He’s going to this _his_ way! He was faced with no truffles and went ‘Screw the truffles! He has overcome _no truffles_! And inspired by his success, he’s even given the main course some of his personal flare.  
  


As he checks the custard, Stiles bites down a grin at the memory of Francis’ face when he’d taste tested the duck meat.  
  


_‘If only I had my camera...’_ he sighs mock sadly, stirring a ladle around in the custard before pulling it out.  
  


He’s checking the consistency and taste of the mixture when he catches a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. Which is weird because everyone in the kitchen is wearing white. Stiles’ looks up to find Lydia walking up to him, tears brimming in her eyes. “Lydia?” he asks, dropping the spoon and hurrying around the counter to meet her halfway. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”  
  


And how is her mascara not running given the tears brimming in her eyes? She shoots him a hot glare that almost makes him declare his innocence despite not knowing what crime he may or may not have committed. “I _told you_ I’d be attending the opening!”  
  


“No, you didn’t,” Stiles retorts immediately. He would have remembered an incredibly important detail like that. Which immediately begs the next question. “Are you here with Jackson?”  
  


“My parents. And I _did_ tell you!”  
  


Stiles waves a finger under her pretty, powdered nose. “No. You just told me you were headed up town for a swanky dinner and therefore, couldn’t come along for moral support.”  
  


“Stiles!” Stiles is surprised she doesn’t stomp her designer heels. “That is not the point!”  
  


He waits for Lydia to tell him the point and when she doesn’t, slowly asks, “What _is_ the point. And why the hell are you crying?” And just like that, the most horrible thought _ever_ occurs to him.  
  


His hands shoot out to grab Lydia’s arms, eyes flying open as he asks, “Is it the food? Is it that bad? Are other people crying because of my food?”  
  


Lydia’s lips twist slightly, the way they do when she’s thinking of a good way to break bad news. It’s a tell she’s never quite managed to break. Without waiting for any verbal confirmation, and ignoring the way Scott hurries up to Lydia with a glass of water and some apple slices (what even Scott?), Stiles rushes through the doors and down the hallway. He weaves his way through the small army of waiters going to and fro the kitchen, peeking around the last set of double doors at the scene before him.  
  


There isn’t a dry eye in the whole place. Stiles feels his jaw fall open, eyes moving from one table to another. _Everyone_ is crying! And in some cases, eating _and_ crying. He feels someone come up behind him, hands dropping on his shoulders. Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin in surprise, throwing Scott a dirty look for the surprise when his best friend asks, “What’s going on? Lydia said something about dragging you back to the kitc- _whoa_.”  
  


“That’s one way of putting it,” Stiles replies, knees feeling weak as jelly as he wonders, was this him? Was this his fault again? Something like that weird ‘magic’ he’d done with the peach skin?  
  


He’s pretty close to panicking anew when Scott says, “He looks _mad_.”  
  


Stiles turns his head just enough to look at the other man before looking back over the room. They land on the dark clad figure making its way towards them. And yeah, Derek looks _mad_. A new kind of panic floods him, making him meep and run towards the kitchen. When it comes to his fight or flight reflex, Stiles is very much a flight kind of person.  
  


The small bit of running helps get rid of _some_ of his panic, but when he catches sight of Lydia wiping away the last of her tears, he wants to continue running. “Oh God,” Stiles whispers, coming to an abrupt halt a few feet away from the kitchen doors. What had he done? He’d ruined everything for Derek. Derek had _told him_ not to do anything weird, and here he was doing weird things. Okay, so it was by accident, but that didn’t undo the damage he’d done.Stiles began to pace, hands tugging on his hair as he repeatedly muttered, “Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh fuc-!”  
  


Stiles’ eyes go cross eyed staring at the small hand that had smacked against his mouth, cutting his curse off half way. He follows the arm down until he meets calm green eyes. “Don’t curse,” Lydia scolds, her palm a firm pressure against his open mouth. “And stop pacing before you crash into a waiter.” Stiles stares down at her, still a little dumbstruck she’d interrupted him like she had.  
  


She takes a quick step back, right in time to avoid Scott crashing into Stiles’ back hard enough to make both their arms windmill to prevent falling on the floor. It’s a near miss, but they avoid the spill, holding onto each other’s arms tightly. “The hell Scott?” Stiles yells.  
  


“Who told you just _stop_ in the middle of the floor?” Scott yells back.  
  


But Stiles ignores it, shock rising anew when he notices the waiters walking out with the main course. “Hold the duck!” Stiles yells at the top of his lungs, trying to pull away from Scott’s grip. Maybe if he rushes he can stop the wait staff before they reach the dining hall.  
  


A few waiters stop, turning to Stiles with puzzled looks. But Lydia grabs Stiles by the arm, flicking red tipped fingers at the men. “Ignore him. Take the food out, chop chop.” She even throws them a beaming smile to reassure them.  
  


“But-”  
  


Lydia’s head turns so fast her hair slaps against his surprised face. “ _You_ ,” she hisses. “You need to stop acting like a chicken that had its head cut off!”  
  


He realizes that Scott is gently herding them somewhere more private -- the pantry again if Stiles has to hazard a guess. But it’s more important to jab a finger in the direction of the dining hall and yell, with a mad edge to his voice, “Did you _see_ how it was out there? How _else_ do you expect me to react? I came here to show him that I love him and that I’m capable of helping him out and _I practically ruined everything!_ ”  
  


“Oh my God,” Scott whispers, hand freezing on Stiles’ shoulder and Lydia’s back. The pair turn together to shoot him identical curious-impatient looks. Scott is staring at Stiles. “You cried. After the truffle thing.” Stiles feels the heat rush up his neck. Yes, he might have, but he doesn’t want a reminder of that low moment. He’s ready to sarcastically thank Scott for bringing that up, but Scott goes on. “And I think some of your tears fell into the sauce that went on the figs!”  
  


Stiles blinks, eyebrows dipping down in confusion. “What’s _that_ got to do with anything?”  
  


Lydia rolls her eyes. Hard. Like Stiles just asked her how to solve a quadratic equation. “You can’t _not_ have noticed by now.”  
  


“Noticed what?” Stiles asks, looking to Scott for an answer.  
  


But Scott is too busy giving Lydia a sharp, assessing look. It clears up within seconds. Stiles sees a realization shine through Scott’s eyes like sunlight through storm clouds. “Of course!” He declares. “It all makes sense now! Or well, mostly sense.”  
  


“ _What_ does?” Stiles almost yells in exasperation.  
  


Scott and Lydia exchange an odd look which tempts Stiles to act like a child and stomp his foot if it means getting a damn explanation out of the pair. “Okay, this is going to sound _really_ crazy, but,” Scott shoots the red head another look before continuing, words rushing out, “I think whatever you feel? It transfers to the food.”  
  


Stiles stares at Scott. “Huh?” he asks dumbly.  
  


His best friend waves his hands as he explains, counting the instances off. “The first time you made that Crab Napoleon? You wanted it to taste delicious, and that’s what Derek said it was like. You wanted to cheer Derek up after his breakup, and he _was_ happy after he ate those eclairs right? And every time you’ve made _anything_ , you said you focused on that same feeling of wanting to make something delicious for the customers. So the people outside are just crying because _you_ felt sad about the truffles thing! It’s not like your food isn’t delicious or anything! Just. They’re feeling what _you_ felt while cooking the meal!”  
  


That’s the _craziest_ idea he’s _ever_ heard.  
  


“That is the _craziest_ idea I’ve _ever_ heard,” Stiles says loudly. He points at Scott while asking Lydia, “You don’t believe this do you?”  
  


She nods firmly. “I believe it 100 percent. Your emotions transfer into the food. There’s no other explanation for it.”  
  


That’s hardly an explanation _at all_. Stiles is ready to throw his hands up and yell that when he hears Derek ask, “What?”  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


The universe, Derek decides, has one hell of a shitty sense of humor. If there’s a higher power (or powers) out there? They’re probably laughing themselves sick at his expense. They must have giggled every time Derek has been stopped by a crying individual, praising the food and generally acting like there was nothing wrong with a hundred odd people spontaneously crying all together over their meal. Someone must have cracked up at the horrified face he made when he’d seen the waiters bring out the main course.  
  


And there’s _no doubt_ in his mind of the laughter his baffled expression is causing someone when, as soon as people have started on the duck, everyone abruptly stops crying. Only to lapse into an uncomfortable silence which stretches on and on and on. Derek has to take a moment to check if his guests hadn’t been hypnotized or worse.  
  


He slowly waves a hand in front of the nearest person’s face, receiving a dreamy smile in return. The gentleman’s eyes are glazed and distance, a tiny smile growing like he’s remembering a fond memory. It’s like they’re in a happy trance.  “Are you enjoying your food sir?” Derek asks cautiously, eyeing the half eaten duck and wondering what was in the food. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear everyone was drugged.  
  


That thought renews the confused rage in his belly, hastening his steps towards the scene of the crime. He just _knows_ Stiles is the root cause of the night’s mayhem. And to think there’s still _dessert_ to deal with. What was Stiles going to make everyone do then? Derek suppresses a shudder right as he pushes the kitchen doors open, stepping back to allow the incoming waiter to walk past him before following. Right in time to see Stiles and a red haired girl (isn’t that the Martins’ daughter, come to think of it?) exchanging heated words while being pushed into the pantry by Stiles’ friend. Scott, wasn’t it?  
  


‘ _What the hell are they doing?’_ Derek wonders angrily, swiftly crossing the busy room after the trio. _‘There’s a dinner going on and they’re going off to gossip?’_  
  


It’s a no brainer to follow after them, preparing a thorough tongue lashing in his mind the whole time. However his entire speech dies the second he hears the redhead say, “Your emotions transfer into the food. There’s no other explanation for it.”  
  


Although it’s the most far reaching, _unlikely_ explanation possible, the conviction with which she says them has Derek choking out, “What?”  
  


It’s too far fetched. To the point that it is _impossible_. Stuff like that doesn’t happen in real life. _‘Neither does floating off the floor because of how good a kiss felt but that happened too.’_ his brain reminds him. And just like that, a flood of memories washes over him.  
  


Derek recalls the sublime feeling that had rushed through him when he’d had the crab, like it was the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten. The giddy happiness he’d felt after eating Stiles’ pastries the first time. That same feeling which had swept him away, promoting him to give Stiles an impromptu tour. Not to forget the sweet chocolate sauce. There’s no forgetting the way his stomach had swooped at the sight of Stiles’ licking his thumb clean of the sweet sauce in between his words. Derek can’t forget the way Stiles’ eyes had darkened, lashes lowering when Derek had leaned in to kiss the chef.  
  


It feels like a roller coaster ride of emotions. More than anything else, he remembers his talk with Laura and how out of character his own emotions felt. If he takes into account Lydia’s statement, doesn’t that make sense? That what he’d felt around Stiles, weren’t his own emotions but rather Stiles’? That Stiles had influenced him through his food? That would explain _everything,_ wouldn’t it?  
  


Derek feels like the walls are closing in around him. It sounds like the trio standing a few feet away are talking at him from a great distance, their words barely piercing through the odd numbness taking over. When he’d talked about his free will, this is _not_ what he’d imagined. He takes a weak step back, trying to snap himself out of his shock.  
  


Over and over again he reminds himself of the simple fact that what he just overheard is _not possible_. But the seed of doubt has already planted itself deep inside of him, growing and spreading wider and wider until it winds itself tight around his heart and lungs. The thorny vines squeeze, causing a throbbing ache deep in his chest. It deepens when he notices Stiles’ taking a step towards him.  
  


“Don’t,” he snaps at the chef, resolutely ignoring the hurt look which flashes in Stiles’ eyes. “Just stay there. Stay _away_ from me.”  
  


Derek reaches for his words, trying to sort them out into a sentence to sum up his emotions but the Martin girl beats him to the punch. “Don’t you think you’re being a little melodramatic right now?” Her voice is dry as a desert, face tight in an unamused expression directed at Derek.  
  


Scott slaps a hand over his face, dragging it down with a muttered, “I didn’t sign up for this shit.”  
  


Derek wants to mumble his agreement, but Lydia continues, heels clicking as she steps up in front of him. “I have no idea what your problem is and frankly, I don’t care. But I won’t stand here and let you think that Stiles coerced you into doing or feeling things against your will.”  
  


“How do you know that?” His voice is high in defensiveness, eyes shifting over quick as mercury to look at Stiles. Stiles is staring at Lydia in shocked surprise, mouth open a few inches. It reminds Derek of the expression he’d made that night in Stiles’ kitchen, when he’d wrapped his hands around Stiles’ co-  
  


“That’s not the kind of person Stiles is,” Lydia states firmly, arms crossed under her bosom. “He might be a sarcastic asshole from time to time who forgets his limits and pushes too hard, but he wouldn’t do anything as low as making someone else feel things by force.”  
  


Derek stares at her. She raises her chin up, challenging him to question her and her words. Clearly she’s ready for any argument Derek might throw her way. Given the hard glint in her eyes, Derek’s sure she’s going to grind anything he says under her designer heels.  
  


He wants to argue back, as weak as it might sound. Derek wants to tell her if it’s not Stiles influencing and coercing him into feeling the things he’s felt, then what other explanation is there? And to completely dismiss Stiles’ part in the matter is irresponsible, isn’t it? Even if Stiles hadn’t ever meant to affect Derek, it’s the fact that he _did_. “It doesn’t change the fact that he _did_ coerce me.”  
  


Out of the corner of his eye Derek notes Stiles shifting forward, coming to stand behind Lydia before gently touching her arm. The dark glare she’s been shooting at Derek doesn’t soften one bit when Stiles says, “It’s okay, Lydia.”  
  


“No it’s _not_!” She immediately snaps back. “I’m not going to just stand here while he accuses you of stuff you’ve never done!”  
  


The warm look Stiles gives her makes something unpleasant churn in Derek’s stomach. It is an unfamiliar feeling, dark and roiling, growing heavier when Stiles murmurs, “And I appreciate that, but I can handle this.” Stiles’ fingers curl gently around her thin wrist, squeezing. Derek wants to grab Stiles’ hand and pull him away by his side. He drags his eyes away from the innocent point of contact between the couple when Stiles turns towards him. The skittish feeling he’d previously experienced around Stiles returns when their eyes meet. A thousand butterflies beat their wings against his rib cage, threatening to come out the next time he opens his mouth. It helps his nerves that Stiles is the one doing the talking right now. “Look,” Stiles begins hesitantly, “I’m not sure if what you just overheard is really real or not, because it sounds _really_ crazy. But... if it is? Then I’m sorry for manipulating you like that. That was the last thing I wanted to do.”  
  


Swallowing hard, Derek says, “That doesn’t change the fact that you _did_ manipulate me into feeling the things I did.”  
  


There’s a quick flash of frustration in Stiles’ eyes, his mouth parting in what is no doubt going to be a scathing or, at the very least, a defensive comment. Before he can, Scott cuts in before the words can be said, asking, “What _did_ he make you feel?” Steady brown eyes look between Derek and Stiles’ startled expression. “I mean, exactly. What did you feel?”  
  


Derek needs a moment to collect himself, to try and figure out how to answer that. It’s not enough. It’s like someone put on a movie called ‘Derek & Stiles’ relationship’ in his head at double speed. He processes scenes and their associated emotions in flashes: the surprised irritation tempered down by a hint of attraction when Stiles had grabbed his ankle instead of the crab nearby, the distant admiration when Stiles had stood up for himself, the tired way with which he’d led Kate and Derek to their seats, the worry in his eyes after Kate had walked out on him, the warm smile he’d given Derek along with his pastries causing Derek’s heart to flutter, the way he’d licked his lips and awoken such desire in Derek. Jump forward to their time in the kitchen and the overwhelming desire he’d had to touch, kiss and mark Stiles. Another skip: Derek remembers how afraid he’d felt because of how _much_ he was feeling. Not to mention the floating. That part really hadn’t helped. And how that fear had only grown after that point because he’d felt like he’d been standing on the edge of a windy chasm, one good gust away from tumbling head first into the dark.  
  


“I felt... scared,” Derek begins hesitantly, _hating_ the way the one word makes Stiles’ flinch.  
  


Scott’s expression remains neutral and gentle at least, keeping Derek from doing anything rash. Like becoming defensive and snappish. “Scared of what? Stiles?”  
  


He shakes his head slowly. “Not really. I felt more scared of what I was feeling. I’ve never felt like this before.”  
  


The gentle expression turns into something Derek wants to categorize as amusement, except he doesn’t understand what’s funny about what he just said. “Like you want to run away because you’re feeling too overwhelmed? Like you’re not yourself? Like you want to run a mile away and toward a certain person because being around them is hard? But really wonderful at the same time?”  
  


“I can’t believe this is happening.” Stiles moans pitifully, covering his face with a hand.  
  


Derek’s eyes shift between the men before latching onto Scott. “Kind of like that, yeah.”  
  


“Congratulations, you’re in love,” Lydia pipes up, rolling her eyes at the exact moment Derek looks at her. “And you’re an oblivious idiot. Which makes you a match made in heaven, actually.”  
  


“Hey!” Stiles says, affronted enough for both of them.  
  


But Derek’s too busy being _startled_ to be anything else. In _love_? That’s not. It can’t. “But. The food.”  
  


“It wasn’t all the food,” Scott gently says, eyes soft. “The first time you came to the restaurant? All Stiles wanted was to make something really delicious.” Derek looks at Stiles in askance, feeling his breath catch because of the intense manner in which Stiles is looking back at him. “The eclairs he brought for you after that? He just wanted to cheer you up.”  
  


He wants to ask if this is true, but the flush on Stiles‘ cheeks give the chef up. “You did?” Is that a strangled croak _his_ voice?  
  


“Think about it, about all the times you had with Stiles and how you felt. Was it before or after eating the food?”  
  


Derek thinks about it, an odd mish mash of peace and agitation crashing inside him. He realizes that yes, Scott is right. He remembers thinking Stiles was attractive during their first meeting. Recalls the attraction he’d felt toward the man when he’d come to return Derek’s wallet. Not to mention the breathless feeling which had swept over him seconds before Stiles had handed the eclairs over. There’s no forgetting his desire to kiss Stiles’ during that same meeting. That same desire which had resurfaced during their next meeting, growing stronger and stronger until he’d pushed himself out of his seat.  
  


As he recalls the few but intense encounters he’s had with Stiles, Derek realizes that Scott is right. Sure, there’s a few times when it _could_ have been the food, but there’s more times that imply the opposite. The attraction he’s felt toward Stiles has been there from the start, and it’s only grown in the short time they’ve known each other. It’s grown so _fast_ , his affection running so _deep_ , that he’s scared. Derek’s never felt so much or so deeply for _anyone_ before.  
  


Unbidden, his eyes shift to observe Stiles. The chef’s face is drawn and pale, but there’s the faint edge of hopefulness to his eyes that makes Derek stumble with his words. “I think. It was before I ate anything.”  
  


It’s like seeing a firework bursting into sparks of color in the night sky. That small spark of hope explode and spreads, changing Stiles’ expression and body language in an instant. It creates a similar warmth to blossom in his chest, making him want to reach out and touch Stiles, to reassure himself. Derek even takes a step forward, ready to squeeze Stiles’ wrist and maybe even kiss him when a loud bang makes him (and Stiles) jump.  
  


Scott cringes harder as the heavy can rolls away from him, spinning over and over again until it taps against Derek’s shoes. It’s clear to see he and Ms. Martin had been trying to sneak out when one of them had accidentally knocked against the can, causing it fall down with a loud bang. “Oops?” Scott offers sheepishly, yelping at the hard slap Lydia lands on his arm. “Ow! I said ‘oops!’”  
  


His nerves feel more than a little shot thanks to all the shocks he’s received tonight, but Stiles seems to be handling them a lot better. Derek turns back to stare at Stiles when he throws his head back and laughs, hands clutching his own stomach. It’s not a full belly, roiling laugh. It’s awkward and genuine, but all together so very uniquely Stiles.  
  


It also helps Derek relax and smile back, albeit weakly, at Stiles when he scrubs a hand over his face and says, “Tonight’s been really crazy, hasn’t it?”  
  


The rhetorical question makes Derek snort quietly. “And there’s still dessert left.”  
  


Stiles’ good humor vanishes in an instant. The smile drops off like jello sliding down a wall, his body brushing against Derek’s as he yelps, “ _The custard!_ ”  
  


Derek watches Stiles _scramble_ out, slowly blinking as he tries to process what just happened. He’s opening his mouth to ask what _that_ was about when Stiles returns. He sticks his head around the corner and pants, “Let me just finish dessert and we can talk then? Minus the peanut gallery.”  
  


“Hey!” “I resent that remark.”  
  


For what feels like the first time in _weeks_ , Derek laughs softly before replying, “Sure.”  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


The opening dinner is a resounding success, even if she does say so herself. Laura beams at Finstock, who is shaking Derek’s hand hard, declaring, “You’ve got a definite hit on your hand,  Hale. And tell that Jean Paul to keep doing what he’s doing. What happened to him to make him change? He needs to keep doing it.”  
  


Peter smiles, smug and happy. Laura may or may not _accidentally_ step on his toes. She gives him a faux innocent look before holding one dainty foot out. “Platform heels. Still haven’t gotten used to them, sorry,” she lies through her teeth, poker face holding despite the way she can see Cora struggling to hold her giggles behind Peter. “Oh look, here come Mr. Crane and Ms. Mills. Don’t hit on her again, Peter.”  
  


“I was simply complimenting her dress. That wasn’t hitting on her.”  
  


While Cora rolls her eyes at Peter, Laura takes a step back, grabbing Derek by the elbow as she does so.  
  


“Laura?” he asks quietly, following her tug. “What are you doing?”  
  


“Sneaking you to the kitchen,” she whispers back, using two passing waiters for cover until they’re out of the lobby and in the main dining hall. Once they’re out of their family’s earshot, Laura continues in her regular voice. “You need to talk to Stiles and fix... whatever it is that’s between you.”  
  


There’s a particular look Derek gets before he interrupt someone and it shows in that moment. It has her rushing forward with her explanation, “I know I’ve been all over the place about this. I mean, first I encouraged you to go out on a date with him, and then told you to break up with him, but I want you to know it’s only because I care about you. I saw how _frazzled_ you got because you couldn’t figure out what was going on, so that’s why I said you should break up with him. I don’t like seeing you worry yourself to death about anything, much less your love life!”  
  


“Laura...” Derek begins.  
  


She holds a hand up to shush him, words tumbling over each other now. “But the thing is, I thought you were frazzled because _he_ likes you too much and you didn’t want that. Or you didn’t like him back as much as he likes you. And I realized tonight that’s not right. I think you like him a lot more than even you know. You’ve been looking over towards the kitchen all night, like you’d rather be there with Stiles instead of at the table with me and the others. And you keep fiddling with your phone, like you want to call or text someone, or are waiting for either one.”  
  


Derek glances in the direction of the kitchen, a surprised look on his face like he didn’t think Laura had observed that. She squeezes his arm, wondering if there’s a sure fire way to get him to understand that he _clearly_ cares for Stiles a lot more than he realizes. “Derek. You even ate the dessert! You _never_ like dessert, but you like his! So much that you stole Boyd’s last pastry from the box. That says a lot don’t you think?”  
  


There’s a long beat of silence, one which makes Laura’s heart thud nervously. It’s a relief when Derek half smiles. “I thought you said that wasn’t really stealing?”  
  


Her laugh is short but loud, enough to make her slap a hand over her mouth. Derek’s eyes sparkle with amusement, his smile growing into a full grin which makes her laugh harder and harder until she’s leaning against him. It’s not really that funny. Laura recognizes this. The laughter is just her relief showing itself - relief that all their hard work has paid off, that everything went well.  
  


Laura feels giddy with delight when she feels Derek laughing as well. The vibrations under her palm and the body shaking against hers has the woman laughing hard and grabbing her younger brother in a hug.   
  


She’s just about ready to bounce in place, heels be damned, when someone clears his throat behind her, “Hope I’m not interrupting,” a familiar voice says.  
  


Is that Stiles? Laura turns in Derek’s arms, blinking in surprise at the chef. He shifts from foot to foot, looking between the siblings before asking, “Is there any reason you guys are standing here laughing so hard that we could hear you in the kitchen?”  
  


Wait. What? She can’t help but stare incredulously at Stiles. What’s with the teasing tone of voice? And the way he’s smiling at Derek? Laura glances at Derek and sees the same look on her brother’s face. This is a far cry from the couple who had stood in Derek’s office just yesterday. Gone is the uncertainty and anger, replaced with something Laura can’t quite put her finger on.  
  


So she points between them, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What the hell is going on here?”  
  


“Nothing,” Stiles says far too quickly and with too much innocence. The blush filling his cheeks doesn’t help either.  
  


Laura rolls her eyes hard, pointing at Stiles when she says, “You’re a terrible liar, just so you know,” before turning to give Derek a questioning look.  
  


Derek stares back, good humored expression cracking into one of resignation. She smirks slightly at how quickly Derek caves. He knows better than to lie or argue with her when she’s on a roll. “He’s right. Nothing’s going on here,” he says.  
  


He also gets a quick punch to the shoulder for the lie. “Liar,” Laura tells him, looking over at Stiles’ good humored expression, “I know something happened between you two, so spill it before I drag it out of you.”  
  


She doesn’t know who they’re trying to fool, really. Just the way Derek looks at Stiles, silently asking if he ought to tell her through a raised eyebrow, and how Stiles answers back with a smile and a half shrug, is enough to give the game away. “We talked,” Derek admits with a tiny smile that Stiles mirrors.  
  


Laura raises both eyebrows at Derek, waving a hand in front of her in a universal gesture of ‘ _And_? Details please!’ The rate at which this conversation is going, she’ll be lucky to hear all the details before she hits 50! It would be really annoying if they weren’t looking at each other with such shy affection.  
  


When she realizes that’s as much as Derek is going to share, she narrows her eyes at her brother. There is something very fishy about this whole situation. So much so, she feels like she’s standing in the middle of a fish market. Her eyes gaze ticks back and forth before the pair before dryly asking, “You talked. Really? That’s all you’re gonna say? After everything you said yesterday and before that?”  
  


There’s a minute shift of expression at that, something more timid and nervous. It stays there when he looks over at Stiles, but whatever he sees there has Derek relaxing all over again. The faint frown shifts into a small smile that is so bright it makes her blink in surprise.  
  


“Oh,” Laura realizes suddenly, letting go of Derek’s ear. Her mouth remains curved in the expression of surprise as she glances over at Stiles before repeating, “ _Oh_.” Did Derek finally get his head out of his ass and realize his feelings for Stiles?  
  


Derek stands tall, rubbing his ear unthinkingly. “Oh, what?”  
  


She glances over at Stiles, hesitating a moment before leaning in to whisper, “You realized it, didn’t you? How you feel about him?” Her eyes search Derek’s face for an answer and she is not disappointed. The soft color which fills Derek’s cheeks says it all.  
  


Laura shakes her head, amused. “Okay. So, you talked. Did you manage to figure everything out then?”  
  


“No. But,” Derek glances over at Stiles once more before continuing in the same soft tone, “we’re going to. Talk about it some more, figure out where to go from here.”  
  


The quiet happiness she sees in Derek’s eyes makes her smile unbidden, a warm satisfaction filling her chest. “You go do that,” she says simply. “I’ll tell Peter you weren’t feeling too well and had to bail.”  
  


Derek’s smile is quick and bright, hidden from her gaze as he grabs her in a quick hug. “Thank you,” he whispers into her ear.  
  


She’ll deny it if anyone else asks her, but there’s a burning sensation in the corner of her eyes and her voice wobbles dangerously when she says, “Any time. Now shoo. Go get your man.”  
  


There’s still work to be done despite the fact their guests have left, but watching Derek walk away, shoulders brushing against Stiles as they quietly murmur to each other, fills Laura with the realization that she’s made the right choice. She hates working late more than anyone else in the family, but tonight? She doesn’t mind it.  
  


She’s still smiling when she steps out into the dining area, almost crashing into Boyd. It’s only the man’s quick reflexes which prevent her from tumbling down. “Thanks,” Laura breathes out in gratitude.  
  


Boyd nods simply, waiting for her to stand on her own before loosening his grip. “Have you seen Derek? I need to talk to him about some things for tomorrow.”  
  


“He had to go. Personal business.” She can’t help but grin and nod back toward the kitchen.  
  


Her grin only widens, to the point her cheeks hurt, when Boyd frowns and asks, “Don’t tell me that rumor about him having a crush on the head chef was true?”  
  


“More than a crush,” Laura corrects him, gently patting his chest. “I get the feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot of Stiles in the future.”  
  


“So long as no one expects me to babysit or be the middleman between them when they fight, I’m all for it,” Boyd retorts dryly.  
  


   
  


   
  


  
  


( **Four months later** )  
  


“I can help!” Stiles yells from the middle of the bed, eyes already roaming across Derek’s bedroom floor. Where the hell is his underwear? To be more precise, where the hell had Derek thrown his underwear? It wasn’t outside the bedroom area, was it? Stiles’ memory is a tiny bit fuzzy on the details of night past.  
  


He remembers the sex, sure, but the finer points escape him. For example, he remembers dragging Derek into a kiss the second he’d locked the door of his loft and stepping back to where the bed is, but he doesn’t really remember anything between that kiss and falling back on the bed, both of them wonderfully naked.  
  


Something clatters in the kitchen, loud enough to make Stiles contemplate going au naturale. They’ve had sex plenty of times but all those times have always been at night and in poor light, so Stiles can’t help but feel incredibly self conscious now that it’s daylight and the loft is brightly lit.   
  


_‘And there’s that,’_ Stiles grimaces as he turns the other way to eye the large _curtainless_ windows. He can deal with the self consciousness thing because Derek’s going to see him in all his pale glory sooner or later, but Stiles isn’t ready or willing to put a show on for anyone who is watching. You can’t convince him someone in the apartment building across the street _doesn’t_ have a telescope aimed at Derek’s loft windows.  
  


“You need curtains,” he declares loudly, scootching over to the side of the bed, sheets covering his waist.  
  


“What for?” Derek yells back, “And stay in bed! I’m almost done.”  
  


Stiles makes a face as he goes back to reclining against the headboard, glaring slightly at the many, many square windows which make up one side of the loft. “Because you’ve got a window wall!”  
  


“So?” Derek sounds closer now. In fact, if Stiles pays attention, he can hear his heavy footfalls, as well.  
  


Grinning in anticipation, Stiles wriggles happily in place. He’s looking forward to seeing the breakfast Derek has made for him. It’s not the first time he’s spent the night at Derek’s, _but_ it _is_ the first time he’s had time to s _tay_ for breakfast. Or the whole day, actually, thanks to Scott’s generosity. Stiles plans on making it up to Scott soon. Like giving him the entire weekend off for his and Allison’s anniversary. It’s the least Stiles can do.  
  


As he adjusts the sheets on the bed, Stiles answers, “What do you mean, ‘so’? It’s a wall of windows! Facing another apartment building! Someone is probably already watching us right now!”  
  


Derek snorts loudly, coming into view with a breakfast tray in hand. Stiles forgets about teasing Derek for not believing him, feeling his mouth drop open at the sight of his boyfriend. Not because he’s wearing nothing but a tight pair of briefs, but because he’s wearing _Stiles’_ briefs. “I was _wondering_ where those were!” He states, wondering why his underwear looks ten times better on Derek than it does on him.  
  


He’s still staring at the way his underwear clings and highlights Derek’s ass, reaching out to touch the dark material when Derek carefully deposits the breakfast tray in Stiles’ lap. “Underwear thief,” he mutters under his breath, fingers stroking Derek’s hip.  
  


Derek’s amused eye roll makes Stiles’ want to bury his face into the nearest pillow and maybe kick his feet a few times against the bed. He can’t help it, okay! He’s _happy_. He didn’t think they’d have this, but here they are anyway, so very happy and in love. “Says the person who keeps stealing my sweaters,” Derek retorts easily, climbing under the sheets next to Stiles.  
  


“I just took _2_! The red one with the thumb holes and the blue one! That doesn’t exactly make me a sweater thief!” His retort makes Derek snort, hard. “Besides! I just borrowed them!”  
  


The tray is jostled when Derek leans over to gently bite Stiles’ ear, causing the other man to jolt in place. “Then I’m just borrowing your underwear too.”  
  


Stiles kind of wants to just melt into the sheets when Derek continues to nibble on his ear lobe, moaning quietly when his knee hits the the tray. “The food,” he reminds his boyfriend, wondering how much of a mess it would make if Stiles were to just throw it to the side and climb onto Derek’s lap.  
  


“No, no, no!” Stiles complains, whining sadly when Derek pulls away instead of continuing, brushing a quick kiss over Stiles’ pout as he does so. “More kissing!”  
  


Derek’s short laugh brushes across his cheek, sweet and hot. “Breakfast first. It’s the most important meal of the day.”  
  


“So’re kisses,” Stiles grumbles under his breath, falling back into his pillow so that he can comfortably survey the tray. There’s not a lot, but it looks great. There’s a small stack of fluffy pancakes, the perfect shade of golden brown. Next to them, a hefty portion of scrambled eggs and several stripes of crunchy bacon. On a smaller plate, there are three slices of toasted bread and a cup of sliced strawberries. And judging from the smell rising from the two mugs, fresh hot coffee.  
  


An admiring smile spreads on his face of its own accord. “This looks great,” Stiles praises, sitting up as he looks around for a fork.  
  


The cutlery is tucked away inside a folded napkin in the corner. Stiles pulls a fork out, deciding he’s going to start with the eggs first. His mouth is watering a tiny bit when Derek murmurs, “It probably won’t be as good as anything you make. It’s nothing special.”  
  


Stiles’ fork pauses mid-way on its journey up to his mouth, hovering in the middle as he gives Derek an incredulous and mildly angry look. “Are you kidding me?” he says. “You made me breakfast in bed! No one’s _ever_ done that for me! Everyone always thought that just because I’m a chef I’d be the one doing all the cooking in the relationship. So this?” He uses his loaded fork to gently pointed between them and the tray, “It’s _pretty_ special.”  
  


Derek flushes, looking away in clear embarrassment over the praise. Satisfied that he’s won the argument, Stiles pops the eggs into his mouth. They’re too salty. _Way_ too salty. It’s a challenge getting them down, but he’s confident Derek didn’t catch him cringing. The bacon at least is crispy-crunchy, if a bit greasy. The pancakes, however, are perfect.  
  


He’s drowning the small stack of hotcakes under the chocolate sauce when he notices the glazed look Derek is giving the plate. Stiles glances down before asking, “What?”  
  


Derek’s eyes are heated when he says, “I was just thinking about that night in the kitchen.. when you made that chocolate sauce.”  
  


Oh. _Oh yeah_. Stiles feels his lips spread in a pleased grin even as his cheeks grow hot. “Yeah?” he hedges, cutting a bite for himself.  
  


His heart flutters against his rib cage when he feels Derek shifting closer, their thighs pressing together. Every small shift makes their skin rub together with a delicious friction that thickens Stiles’ blood. He curls his toes into the soft sheets, trying not to grin when Derek leans in to press slow kisses to his neck.  
  


“Yeah.” The single word sends shivers through Stiles. Again he’s tempted to throw the tray away and have his wicked way with Derek.  
  


But he doesn’t want to undo any of Derek’s hard work. The reminder makes him groan even as he offers more of his neck for Derek’s ministrations. “Trying to eat here,” he complains with a whine.  
  


Derek’s warm chuckle makes him clutch the fork like it’s a lifeline. “So am I,” he murmurs, right into Stiles’ ear like the evil person he is. Derek _knows_ how much of a weak point that is for Stiles and frequently take advantage of the fact.  
  


It takes a considerable amount of effort to push Derek away, hand plastered over Derek’s face. Stiles glares at his boyfriend and sternly tells him, “Food first. Sex later.”  
  


The slow eyebrow raise he gets in return is judgemental as fuck. He’s never met anyone whose eyebrows could be so expressive. It’s a running joke Stiles has with Derek -- how he’s invented a whole new language involving eyebrows. Derek doesn’t find it funny at all, but it’s never stopped Stiles from teasing him about it. Because it’s true. No one else can get so much across with a simple kinked eyebrow than Derek.  
  


Unless it’s another Hale. But even then, they don’t have anything on Derek’s eyebrows.  
  


And right now they’re telegraphing, ‘Really? That’s how you’re going to deal with this?’ at Stiles. “Your words, not mine,” Stiles reminds him before picking the fork up again. He spears the small bite dripping with chocolate sauce before offering it to Derek. The piece of hot cake is drenched with chocolate. Stiles keeps his hand under the fork to prevent any stray drops  from falling on the sheets.  
  


He grins when Derek opens his mouth and accepts the bite. The grin freezes in place, however, when Derek’s lips close around the prongs and _drag_. Stiles’ swallows hard, feeling moisture gather under his tongue when he feels Derek’s hand catch his wrist. He knows what’s coming. It’s obvious. And he still feels unprepared.  
  


A hard tremble makes its way through his body when Derek’s tongue delicately cleans up the few drops of chocolate sauce which have fallen on Stiles’ hand. The hot-wet sensation of Derek’s tongue against his rough palm has Stiles wishing he’d been more messy with the chocolate sauce. Like maybe let it drip all over his fingers. If only he’d let a few drops fall on his naked chest.  
  


“You’re an ass,” Stiles complains roughly.  
  


The ass in question shoots him a cocky grin, dropping one last kiss in the middle of Stiles’ palm before innocently saying, “Want me to feed you, too?”  
  


Stiles can’t nod fast enough. The tips of his fingers feel numb and tingly with anticipation when Derek gently takes the fork out of his loose grip. Stiles wonders where to put his hands now that they’re free. In his lap? On Derek’s thigh? Maybe Derek’s arm? He quickly forgets the matter when Derek swiftly cuts too large a piece out of the pancakes and holds it out for Stiles.  
  


The path of the fork is marked by a chocolate sauce trail - beginning with a huge glob on the edge of the tray and finishing with a smear on Stiles’ top lip. Stiles’ fingers itch to clean the chocolate dotting his skin, but Derek swoops in to do the job for him. Derek drags the flat of his tongue just beside Stiles’ happy trail, catching the first drop of chocolate sauce before following it up, up, up. It’s only when he’s sucked Stiles’ lip clean does Derek murmur, “More?”  
  


By this point, Stiles’ brain has checked out. It’s put its hat on, grabbed the fishing pole and put a sign on the door saying ‘Gone Fishing. Be back in a couple of days.’ That’s why it’s a _miracle_ he manages to remember the tray before it goes crashing down on the floor.  
  


“Wait, wait!” he gasps, ignoring Derek’s confused noise in favor of grabbing the breakfast tray and putting it down beside the bed. Okay, fine. He _drops it_ because a certain someone follows and kisses his way up Stiles’ back. It’s a lucky thing the legs are already out, causing the tray to land on all fours with a loud clatter instead of a louder bang and bigger mess than some spilled coffee.  
  


“Derek!” Stiles tries to chide the man, but it winds up coming out as a long moan instead. Derek hums, continuing to suck hickeys onto Stiles’ neck from behind. It’s the perfect position to rock back against Derek’s hips, to feel his dick hardening. Stiles curls one hand back and into Derek’s hair, holding him in place while he rocks back and forth. His half-hard dick begins to swell to fullness, aided by the hand Derek sneaks in between Stiles’ body and the bed.  
  


It’s the most delicious feeling Stiles has ever known, to be trapped in a warm bed between the soft sheets that smell of them and Derek’s firm body. He sighs, hiding his smile against the bed as he grinds his ass back into Derek’s hard dick. His fingers clutch the sleep warmed sheets, gasping out Derek’s name like it’s his favorite prayer.  
  


His benediction falters only when Derek’s cock slides between his ass cheeks, the head catching against the twitching hole it finds there. Embarrassment fills him when his voice cracks, but desperation for more has his hand sliding back to grab hold of Derek and guide him in. “Wait,” Derek interrupts this time, voice ragged around the edges. Almost immediately he moves off Stiles’ back, shifting away in the opposite direction. Stiles chases after Derek’s body this time, sliding up next to him as Derek searches for something. He distracts Derek by sliding one hand down his back and squeezing his ass while his mouth occupies itself by dropping kisses on tanned skin. “Where’d the lube go?”  
  


That’s a good question. Stiles pauses, lips pressed thoughtfully against Derek’s shoulder. Derek had pulled the lube out of its usual spot last night, used it on Stiles and then... “Check under the pillow?” Stiles suggests. He doesn’t help Derek in his search, far more preoccupied kissing Derek’s tattooed back. Stiles is more than a little fascinated with the simple design, curious fingers finding the curved lines and tracing them over and over again.  
  


He’s just placed a kiss in the middle of the triskele when he feels Derek laugh. The pleasant sound makes his lips tingle as they stretch up into a smile. “You really like that, don’t you?” Derek asks, turning around to lie on his back. And look at that, he found the lube.  
  


“Like what?” Stiles asks, following Derek’s hand as it guides him into straddling Derek’s hips. He isn’t paying a lot of attention to be honest. It’s something that happens whenever Derek’s naked chest is in front of him. Stiles gets distracted by Derek’s pecs, fingers curiously sweeping over firm but soft muscles before teasing the other man’s nipples - over and over again until they’re peaked.  
  


He’s a trifle annoyed when Derek’s heavy hand stops him mid-gentle nipple pinch. “The tattoo,” Derek says, pulling Stiles forward instead of rolling them over. This is about the time he’s usually on his back, Derek between his spread legs, lube slick fingers ready to work him open. But instead, Stiles is being pulled forward until he and Derek are face to face. “You really like my tattoo.”  
  


Stiles raises his eyebrows in an amused expression, a smile on his lips to complete the look. His knees press into Derek’s hips in a friendly, cozy gesture when he answers, “It’s alright. I’m kind of more attached to the dude instead of the tattoo. He’s got a really sexy back.” He grins at the eye roll Derek directs his way, wriggling slightly in place when he asks, “Are we gonna get on with the morning sex or should I go back to eating? I’m pretty sure the coffee won’t be too cold.”  
  


Again, he expects to be rolled over, but his expectations go up in smoke when Derek lightly taps the bottle of lube against Stiles’ cheek. Stiles tries to stare at the bottle, but gives up. It’s in too close proximity to get a good look. “What?” he asks in confusion, leaning back to sit on his haunches before grabbing the bottle out of Derek’s grasp.  
  


But Derek doesn’t immediately let go of the lube. He waits for Stiles to give it an experimental little tug before softly saying, “Ride me.”  
  


Stiles freezes, feeling incredibly self conscious all of a sudden. He’s too aware of his nude state and how Derek can see everything from his place on the bed. Stiles wants to grab the sheets and cover his chest like he’s a blushing virgin. It’s a silly urge, but there it is.  
  


It’s difficult, but Stiles makes himself meet Derek’s soft gaze, blushing hot under his skin in the process, before he asks, “You mean, _ride you_ -ride you?” He just wants to make sure they’re on the same page. It’s not like he’s trying to stall or anything. Not that he gets much of a chance when Derek nods, calloused hands sliding up Stiles’ thighs to squeeze his hips before moving higher up to skate past ticklish ribs and back down.  
  


Stiles shivers, eyes fluttering, a slow heat simmering in his belly. “Okay,” he breathes out, brain already formulating a plan. If that’s what Derek wants, then Stiles will happily oblige his boyfriend.  It’s a cozy, quiet morning they’re sharing together and in Stiles’ eyes, whatever sex they will be having should reflect the mood.  
  


So he takes his sweet time grabbing the lube, dribbling the slick over Derek’s hand before guiding it back, past the skin that is doubtlessly stubble burned thanks to the thorough rim job he’d been put through last night, with a murmured, “C’mon. Open me up.” Derek however, follows the exact opposite approach. His finger are careful, but eager, clearly wanting Stiles to be ready as fast as possible. Not that Stiles is complaining, far from it actually. He’s all for the quick and dirty prep, because then they can get to the fun stuff.  
  


While Derek’s fingers work their magic, Stiles hovers on his hands and knees above the other man. One elbow is sunk into the pillow and the other next to Derek’s head, his hands busy holding Derek’s face in place for one breathless kiss after another. Stiles presses every moan into Derek’s skin, hides his gasps under a pink ear, offers his whines straight into Derek’s waiting mouth. His body shakes and trembles, threatening to give out every time Derek’s clever fingers brush against that spot that has Stiles’ seeing stars.  
  


He’s stuffed full with four thick fingers when he whines, “ _Derek_.” It’s not what he wants to say, but words are so difficult to form when every gasp of air is like breathing in fire. All he can smell, hear, taste, _feel_ is him and Derek and _them_ \- and it’s the best kind of burn in his chest. It allows him to put aside any reservations he has about this new position and push up on his hands, moaning Derek’s name again in the hopes it gets the message across. Stiles needs Derek’s dick in him, like, yesterday. He needs to feel Derek’s blunt head teasing his rim, needs to feel the faint burn and stretch that always accompanies the first thrust in. It might be a lot to get across in a single word. But like Stiles said, air. Kind of an issue at present.  
  


Thankfully, Derek seems to understand, probably through the way Stiles keeps trying to bounce on his hand while moaning shamelessly. That doesn’t mean Stiles doesn’t shoot Derek an angry look when he pulls his fingers out and reaches for the condom foil sitting on the bedside table. _‘When had he gotten those out?’_ Stiles wonders, shrugging the question off in favor of helping Derek slip the rubber on.  
  


They both get Derek’s cock ready, using way too much lube in the process as a result of their impatience. But it’s completely worth the easy slide down. Stiles’ body shakes so hard he’s scared he might break before he’s seated all the way on Derek’s cock. _Jesus_. How is it that Derek’s cock feels bigger than ever before? And so _hot_. That’s got to be his imagination, right?  
  


Time feels less like sand through an hourglass and more like swimming in molasses. Stiles breathes in through his mouth, feeling his cock _throbbing_ against Derek’s stomach. He’s hyper aware of the way his dick is leaking precome over Derek’s happy trail with every twitch, rolling faintly to feel the drag of skin and soft hair against the head. This forces his attention toward the thick fullness of Derek’s cock inside of him. Stiles feels torn, wishing for more clarity and less fogginess because he wants to focus on every tiny detail right now. Instead he’s getting flashes of sensation - the way Derek’s cock twitches inside him, the faint pain of short nails digging into his hips, the stutter under his palms when Derek breathes out, the syrupy warmth he feels at the sight of Derek’s mouth falling open to reveal his bunny teeth. It’s too much.  
  


“Fuck. I can’t,” Stiles hisses through his teeth, draping himself over Derek’s body before moaning against Derek’s cheek, “Too much, Derek. S’ too much. I can’t handle it.” His body disagrees, hips carefully beginning a rolling motion which has his words turning into gibberish. Stiles works himself down and back, legs spreading wider in the desperate hope for more traction and easier thrusts.  
  


When Derek’s arms come up around him, Stiles sobs his happiness straight into the mouth under his. His hands move frantically over Derek, petting his chest, neck, face, hair as the coil in his stomach tightens. There’s barely any proper thrusting involved in their sex right now. Derek’s hips move up in tiny increments while Stiles’ roll down, but it is hands down the most intense sex they’ve had to date. Probably because of how intimate it is. And slow. It’s got to be that. The way they’re just taking their time to build the heat up, stoking the fire carefully until it blazes steady and hot.  
  


Stiles’ skin feels like it’s being pulled tighter and tighter with every broken variation of his name that Derek moans out. He’s going to snap and break any second now - one thrust in the right place, one hand being dragged over the right set of muscles, one bunch of muscles shifting just so under his dick and Stiles is _done_. His hands slide over Derek’s sweaty arms, forcing them to unbend and straighten against the bed before linking their hands together.  
  


“So close,” Stiles gasps brokenly, nose pressing uncomfortably against Derek’s. There’s a familiar, sharp pain on his shoulder that makes him moan wantonly. He’ll never get used to Derek’s biting kink. Never wants too, actually. “So fucking close.” If only he wasn’t keeping Derek’s hands occupied with his own, then Stiles would ask him to touch him back there. And maybe even push another finger in for that perfect teasing burn to make him come.  
  


It’s a complete surprise that he comes because of the sweetest little sigh Derek lets out under Stiles’ jaw, fingers squeezing Stiles’ hands _tight_. Stiles’ orgasm blindsides him, hitting him with all the force of a freight train. His gasp is loud and shocked, eyes wide open. He distantly watches Derek watching him come, realizing he’s going to feel shy about this later when there’s less endorphins and happy pheromones floating through him. But in this moment, he feels nothing but pleasure, pleasure, and more pleasure.  
  


He feels the wetness spreading between their stomachs, moans when Derek rolls them over and shifts up to his elbows, fingers still locked together. Stiles _has_ to look down between them and see the mess he’s made. There’re a few thin strands of come trembling between their abs, breaking at a particularly hard thrust which has Stiles shifting up the bed. The same thrust has Derek biting down a groan, eyes squeezed shut in an expression of concentrated pleasure.  
  


There’re several dangerous and sappy thoughts running through his mind as he enjoys his turn to watch Derek come. The foremost being his desire to have sex without condoms. _‘Soon.’_ Stiles promises himself, letting out a tired, “Oof!” when Derek collapses on him without warning.  
  


The man is far too heavy. They’re sweaty and sticky, and did he mention how the way their chests are pressing together is just shy of painful? And it’s so amazing Stiles doesn’t want to change a single detail.  
  


Except maybe the jizz drying on their stomachs.  
  


Stiles sighs, long and pleased. “ _Now_ it’s good morning.”  
  


“It wasn’t before?” Derek muzzily asks, voice coming out twice as muffled thanks to the way he’s hiding his face against Stiles’ neck.  
  


The words tickle his skin and funny bone. Oh _God,_ he wants to giggle. It’s official - sex with Derek makes him stupid. No one must know of this, not even Derek. He loves the man dearly, but Derek’s pretty sneaky when he wants to be and would most certainly take advantage of this information. So instead Stiles grins goofily at the ceiling, hiding it against Derek’s damp hair before replying, “It was just morning when I woke up and you weren’t here, then okay when you said you were making me breakfast in bed and after sex -- it’s _good_ morning.”  
  


The way Derek sighs, exasperated and fond, makes Stiles wriggle his toes happily. He’s starting to get some sensation back in his extremities, how about that. “You talk too much after sex,” Derek grumbles, nipping on Stiles’ ear in gentle reprimand.  
  


“You don’t talk much at all,” is Stiles’ immediate, if breathy, retort.  
  


Derek continues to gently worry the pink shell with his teeth and lips. “Maybe next time I’ll make you come so hard you’ll forget everything but my name.” Oh hell, that’s got his cock twitching in interest. The thought of having sex _that_ intense with Derek is both exciting and a tiny bit scary. But mostly exciting.  
  


He hums, turning his face in the hopes of capturing Derek’s lips in a kiss. “You could try,” Stiles whispers, smiling when he gets his wish. They kiss slow and sweet, tiny chaste presses which deepen into touches that make Stiles feel like he’s melting into the sheets. Derek’s tongue playfully touches against his own, retreating to follow the swollen curve of Stiles’ lips. Stiles tries to follow, but forgets his purpose when Derek captures his top lip between his own and sucks.  
  


They continue their lazy making out until Stiles mouth tingles, thanks to Derek’s beard and firm kisses. He must look like a total mess, his mouth all red and swollen. Oh. That reminds him. “I was thinking of getting another crab,” Stiles says, suddenly wondering when his hands migrated from the bed to Dereks’ back.  
  


His words cause Derek to pause a moment before pulling away to ask, in a judgmental voice, “You what?”  
  


Stiles sighs, like he didn’t just disrupt their afterglow with the weird topic. “I wanted to get Queen Shelly some company. A dude crab I could call King Crab. And a tank!” He doesn’t know how to explain the happywarm _glad_ feeling which fills him when Derek sighs and rolls over, one arm out in clear invitation for Stiles to curl up against him. Stiles happily moves into the offered space, lying down on his side, propped up on one elbow to watch Derek as he explains his plans to have a whole crab family.  
  


Derek listens, eyes closed and lips quirking up by the time Stiles explains teaching the crabs a few tricks to keep the restaurant patrons entertained. “Speaking of which,” Stiles pokes Derek’s calves with his toes, hand absentmindedly scratching the drying come off his stomach. He needs to tell Derek to stash some wet wipes next to the lube and condoms because there’s often times like these where they both are too lazy to get out of bed and clean up before cuddling, “How’s Scott doing at your restaurant? He told me you guys hired some new guy who’s been giving him trouble. Matt or something?”  
  


Ever since that fateful opening night, Scott has been working at Triskele as their head chef.  
  


At first he’d taken the post up temporarily. “Just until you find someone better,” Scott had told Derek. But as it turned out, they never did. Since then, Scott had made sure that the Hale restaurant put out some of the best food New York had to offer. For his part, Stiles hired the bright eyed and eager Kira as his new sous chef. She was no Scott, but she had boundless enthusiasm and the same brand of sweet humor that made Stiles feel he’d known her for years instead of months.  
  


And it helps that she’s a _mean_ baker. Seriously. Her pies are to _die_ for. He and Erica may or may not have gotten into a few scuffles fighting for the leftover slices of Kira’s pumpkin pie.  
  


Derek scowls faintly. Stiles immediately reaches down to smooth the look away. It’s too early in the morning and too soon after sex for frowny faces. He gets an amused look for his troubles. “Tate,” Derek corrects, fingers tracing designs on Stiles’ back. “Scott said Tate’s not too focused or experienced enough to work in a big kitchen. He keeps messing a lot of basic stuff up. We might have to let him go.”  
  


Stiles’ fingers stroke Derek’s eyebrows down before slipping into his dark hair. “If he’s not making the cut then you should fire him.” He shrugs lightly. “It’s harsh, but...”  
  


Derek quirks an amused eyebrow at him. “And your opinion isn’t influenced at all by Scott complaining that Tate keeps hitting on Allison?”  
  


Sniffing loudly, Stiles answers, “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” He yelps when Derek knocks his elbow away, causing Stiles to flop down on the other man’s chest. “You suck,” Stiles grumbles against a nipple.  
  


He groans when Derek smugly says, “You like it when I do.”  
  


“That was terrible!” Stiles complains with a light smack against Derek’s abs. He smiles anyways when Derek’s stomach jumps because of his quiet chuckles. His smile stays in place when Derek pulls him up in a quick, apologetic kiss.  
  


When it ends, Stiles murmurs, “I love you.”  
  


“Love you, too,” Derek returns easily, eyes warm as they hold Stiles’ gaze.  
  


Life, Stiles muses, is pretty damned good. He’s got his restaurant, is actually turning a profit, a boyfriend who makes him breakfast in bed and is awesome at sex, and there’s still a whole day ahead of them where it’ll just be the two of them enjoying their time together.  
  


Yep. Life is _grand._  
  


{ _The End_ }  
  


  
  


{ _Extra_ }  
  


“You’re telling me you were never freaked out about the whole floating on the ceiling thing?” Derek asks incredulously.  
  


Stiles shrugs easily, stealing a cashew off Derek’s plate with his chopsticks. “Nope.”  
  


“Why the hell not?” This time he catches Stiles’ chopsticks with him, mid-theft. A small shake has the cashew falling into a nest of egg fried rice and Stiles retreating with a pout.  
  


His boyfriend shrugs and picks up piece of beef. “Stuff like that happened around my mom sometimes. She wouldn’t float,but some of the stuff around her would. Like when she’d peel apples. The rind would float a few seconds before falling down.”  
  


Derek gives Stiles a long contemplative gaze, before very seriously asking, “Are you sure she wasn’t a witch?”  
  


Stile rolls his eyes. _Hard_. Maybe Scott was right after all. He _has_ been rubbing off on Stiles in the non-sexy way. “I’m sure. That’s just not possible, okay?”  
  


“But floating on the ceiling is?” Derek retorts.  
  


Derek derives a great deal of amused satisfaction from the look that passes over Stiles’ face before he says, “Shut up and pass the egg rolls.” He doesn’t bother holding down his triumphant smirk either when he passes the white box over. It’s well worth the small kick Stiles directs his way under the table.  
  


   
  


[1] We’re swimming in a puddle of shit.  
  


   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: The mild dubcon warning is included because Stiles unwittingly winds up influencing Derek's, and other people's emotions, through the food he makes. Derek temporarily doubts his feelings for Stiles because of this.
> 
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> [Tumblr](http://candypinkcocks.tumblr.com)


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